by Robert Ryan
“Afternoon, miss.”
Erlissa smiled brightly at him.
“Taking a pleasure ride?” he asked.
“Of a sort,” she said.
“Not many folks come down this way. Specially in the company of a lòhren and a Raithlin. We watched you ride in and got a notion that things must be happening in the city.”
Lanrik realized that these men hungered for news. They lived isolated lives and wanted to hear about things that were happening in the wider world.
Aranloth seemed to have great sympathy for this. Anxious about time as he was, he still dismounted to talk to them. Who, thought Lanrik, would understand better? The life of a lòhren was one of wondering from city to city, town to town, region to region. He must have spent much of his own life alone in the wilds of Alithoras, starved for company and news.
“There’s been war,” he said. “Elugs have crossed Galenthern and attacked at the ford.”
The old man nodded his head solemnly, and his beard jerked up and down. “We heard rumor of that yesterday. A young boy comes here time to time to sell knives, but he didn’t know how things turned out.”
“The army met them at the ford and barred their way.”
The old man looked as though that was what he expected; nevertheless, there was a hint of relief in his expression.
“I soldiered once,” said his younger companion. “Spent some time there, and I reckon it’s hard enough just to stand in the current. Crossing with an army waiting on the other side is a good way to collect arrows.”
The old man lifted his hat again, this time to run his hand through the thin hair on his head.
“That’s big happenings, but there must be more going on. Leastways, I should think so, otherwise you’d not be coming through here.”
Lanrik realized that for all the old man’s appearance and quaint speech he was shrewder than many who wore the king’s livery and earned high wages.
“You’re right,” Aranloth said. “The king has disbanded the Raithlin as well.”
The old man tilted his head in thought. “Now why would he do that? Seems to me that the Raithlin have always been needed and likely always will.”
“Costs too much money,” Aranloth said.
“Figures!” the old man said, coughing again. “There’s more than enough gold coming out of here to fund a thousand Raithlin and run the city for a hundred years, but the king never seems to get enough. Spends it on all the wrong things, I reckon. He’ll come to a bad end, that one.”
Aranloth answered quietly. “That he will.”
They talked a little more, the old man not pressing further on what brought them to the gorge. Aranloth was a font of information, even gossip, on the happenings both small and large in Esgallien before they rode on.
Not long after, they came to the northern end of Caladhrist, and the road climbed steeply. They struggled up it, the horses finding it difficult to get purchase on the loose stones, but eventually they reached the top.
The countryside could not contrast more with the barren valley. It was a land of downs, sloping grasslands, rivulets and thick belts of trees. Before them, a road ran west to east, straight as the one from Esgallien, though it was wider and better made.
Lanrik looked at it closely. It was ancient and rarely used, yet its construction was superior to any in Esgallien.
Aranloth noticed his curiosity. “It’s one of the old Halathrin roads. Follow it a hundred leagues west, and it’ll take you to their home of Halathar. Follow it forty-five leagues east, and you’ll end up at the coast north of the city of Camarelon. But we’re not going that far. We’ll turn away before then and strike into Enorìen.”
They moved onto the road, enjoying the level ground and lack of obstacles that marred Caladhrist, and made good ground eastward as the afternoon progressed. Aranloth’s sense of unease now seemed to infuse Erlissa as well, and she became even more introspective.
Lanrik rode behind them. He wanted time to think and clear his head. So much had happened lately, and he had come to grips with so little of it.
The riding was hard but it freed his mind to think, and he enjoyed the sensation of the miles being eaten up and put behind them. Each moment that passed brought them closer to their ultimate goal of saving Lòrenta, and when that was done, he would try to find a way to get on with his life.
Dusk swept along the treed downs, and Aranloth called a halt. They cared for their horses, and then began the usual chores of setting up camp. It was a routine for them now, and they did their jobs quickly and efficiently.
Lanrik prepared a fire-pit and Erlissa, apt at finding dry wood, searched beneath a stand of trees. Aranloth collected water from a nearby rivulet and would also cook the evening meal. He was, Lanrik thought, the best camp-cook he had ever known. No doubt a lot of practice was the reason for it; he had said himself that he was old, older than they knew, and that got Lanrik thinking about him.
Stories about lòhrens were many and varied. In some they had great power, yet Aranloth had not shown any. Certainly, he had not used lòhrengai against the Royal Guard, but only his staff as a physical weapon.
Children grew up in Esgallien hearing tales about the exploits of a lòhren called Aranloth. In one cycle of ballads he was portrayed as a mythical hero of antiquity. In a group of adventure stories he was head of the Lòhrenin, the Council of Lòhrens. In yet another group of poems he was just a kind-hearted vagabond wandering Alithoras and helping those in need. A Raithlin instructor had once insisted the name Aranloth was actually an inherited title used by successive leaders of the Lòhrenin.
When they finished their meal, Lanrik determined to find out something of the truth.
“You know how to fight well with that staff,” he said.
Aranloth shrugged. “You learn as you go. Travel far enough, live long enough, and you acquire useful skills.”
“Where did you learn it?”
“I’ve spent much time among the Cheng tribes in the far west of Alithoras. They call me a sage, rather than a lòhren, but it all comes to the same thing. Theirs is a warrior nation, highly skilled in combat, with or without weapons. Some of their masters are extraordinary.”
“Why use the staff to defend yourself instead of lòhrengai?”
Aranloth cocked his head in thought. “An interesting question. Some, and by that I mean elùgroths, use sorcery indiscriminately. But there’s a price for each use of elùgai and lòhrengai. Something of the user, however slight, is lost. Likewise, something of the energy that is gathered and transformed becomes part of them. Power should be used sparingly, only just enough to achieve the goal, and only when it can be accomplished in no other way.”
“That’s why an elùgroth is inhuman,” added Erlissa.
Aranloth looked at her. “They would argue that freeing themselves of love, sympathy and compassion makes them stronger.”
“It does,” she said. “But what’s the point of strength if there’s no higher purpose to use it for?”
Aranloth did not answer. Erlissa had endured the presence of a sorcerer and knew what she was talking about, but Lanrik had not, and hoped never to do so. He had learned something though, even if there was more that he wanted to discover. But they were all growing tired, and soon after lay near the fire to sleep. The howling of the wolves started again, and this time another pack answered from the north.
Lanrik went to sleep listening to the wolves, but he woke some time later to silence. Hours must have passed. There was no noise at all. The fire had died to embers and all was still, but something had woken him.
Aranloth was kneeling near the embers, his staff in his hand, and his head tilted to one side, listening. He looked over, but said nothing.
Minutes passed, but Aranloth did not move nor was there any noise. Yet the uneasiness that Lanrik had sensed in the other two all afternoon now infused him.
Erlissa woke suddenly and looked at them but did not speak. The silence continued, then far away they heard the
baying of dogs. It was the sound of a hunting pack, of a team used by a great lord, but nobody lived here nor would they hunt at this time of night.
“The wolves have gone,” Erlissa said.
Lanrik knew the howling had long since stopped, but now the baying came again. The sound carried eerily over the otherwise silent downs then ceased.
Aranloth stood. It was the easy rising of a young man, not the old man that he was, and there was anger in his features.
“I’ve heard those hounds before!”
He stamped the end of his staff into the ground and strode to the horses.
“I didn’t think to hear them again, but they’re on the hunt and we’re their quarry. We have other enemies this night than the Royal Guard. Ride! And don’t look back!”
Lanrik and Erlissa did not ask any questions. They had not seen him like this before, and Lanrik wondered what could disturb him so much when the attack of the Royal Guard had left him unperturbed.
They had saddled the horses and moved onto the road before Lanrik spoke.
“What’s hunting us?”
“The hounds of Ebona. The hounds of the otherworld. Creatures of ùhrengai. They have many names: all of them mean death.”
Aranloth urged the roan into an ever-faster gallop, and the others followed, the baying of hounds loud and excited behind them.
They raced along in a wild chase. Nighttime shadows flitted past, and the light of stars cast wavering shadows. It was a perilous ride where to misstep or fall would kill, but Halathrin roads were wide and even, and they trusted that there would be no potholes to break a horse’s leg or tree roots to trip them.
Lanrik was surprised when Aranloth slowed. He appeared to look for some landmark and then moved off the road. They now went at a slower pace, moving southeast over stony ground, shallow rivulets and through a river ford.
The lòhren turned to explain. “Even hounds of the otherworld must hunt by sight and scent. This will slow them.”
“But didn’t we have a better chance of outrunning them on the road?” asked Lanrik.
Aranloth ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps,” he said. “These hounds are not as others though. Few horses in Alithoras could outrun them – and only when they were fresh.”
“Then what are we going to do?” asked Erlissa.
“The only thing we can,” Aranloth said. “We must find a place to make a stand. But we’ll have time to find somewhere to better our chances.”
They pushed on. The baying and yelping of the hounds rose in waves of excitement behind them, and Lanrik noticed after a while that they were on a road again.
Shortly, the baying turned to whines and uncertain barks. The hounds had evidently lost their trail, but Lanrik knew it would not be for long. They would cast around until they found it again then chase once more.
Ahead of them was a mass of trees. It was a dark smudge extending as far as they could see in either direction.
“The Woods of Alonin,” the lòhren informed them. “Long did a group of Halathrin dwell here. Some say a remnant still does. If so, they’re deeper than we can go tonight.”
Aranloth ceased speaking and listened. The baying of the hounds intensified into a fury of excitement and noise. “Ride!” he said.
He kicked the roan into a gallop, but when they passed beneath the trees they were forced to slow again. It was very dark, and the smell of leaf mold and forest was strong.
They did not have to travel far to reach Aranloth’s destination. The road led toward a mass of jumbled stones covering tens of acres of ground. It was only as they neared that Lanrik realized the stone was not natural: the piles were formed by broken pillars and walls. This was once a city. Not as large as Esgallien, but a city nevertheless. He recognized a pattern of streets, even parks where trees grew thickly. In the center was a tower, overthrown and dilapidated, and Aranloth led them with a clatter over cracked flagstones and down a shadow-haunted street toward it.
Scattered all about the tower was a ring of fallen and shattered stones. The foundations on one side were intact though and formed a half moon of wall some twenty feet high.
They tied the horses near the wall and moved to face outward. The baying of the hounds drew close and filled the forest. Lanrik noticed that flame had once swept the tower. Masses of charred timber littered the ground, and black scorch marks defaced the walls.
“It’s a good place to make a stand,” he said. “Our backs are shielded.”
Aranloth nodded. “There’s another reason. The hounds are creatures of ùhrengai. These ruins will confuse them and reduce their strength. They won’t like the regular pattern of the streets, the flagstones beneath their paws, or the very scent of civilization that still lingers in the air.”
Lanrik was nervous. Talking might take his mind off what would shortly come.
“What civilization? I’d guess it to be a Halathrin city, but I’ve never heard of it before.”
“So it was,” confirmed Aranloth. “You haven’t heard of it because it was destroyed before Conhain founded Esgallien. The Halathrin warred with elugs in these lands long before your ancestors came, even before they befriended the Halathrin in the days that are legend to your people. But this city, and the Tower of Haladhon in which we now stand, is remembered by some.”
Aranloth paused, his eyes searching the outer ruins, but his mind seemed elsewhere.
“It was in this tower that the lady Alonùradth wed Lord Carandùr, and on that day there were no shadows, no charred stones, no ruins, but rather the Woods of Alonin lay beneath a gentle midsummer sun. More gentle still were the eyes of Alonùradth. But neither gentleness, nor the bravery of her husband, saved her from the curved swords of the elugs when the city fell.”
Lanrik thought of the passing of time in this place. A city had risen; men and women had walked these streets while his ancestors had gathered at standing stones and celebrated the birthing sun in midwinter. And stone and people had fallen before Conhain even came to Esgallien.
He had no further time to ponder for the hounds were upon them. They growled, snarled and moved like swift shadows behind piles of stone and ruined walls. The elusive movements drew closer, and here and there, they caught a glimpse of the beasts. Their shoulders stood waist high to a man; their frames were massively muscled, and they were bigger than any dog Lanrik had ever seen.
The horses whinnied in fear. A beast appeared to the right. It rushed toward them, jaws slavering, massive body straining, paws slamming against the stone paving. White flame burst into it, and the hound twisted sideways and tumbled behind cover. It whined in the shadows.
Aranloth lowered his staff. “They’ll be more careful now,” he said grimly.
Lanrik kept his eyes on the outer perimeter and did not respond. But he had seen the lòhren-fire, and it seemed Aranloth had power after all.
The hounds grew quiet. Far away in the night, there was the sound of fast-ridden horses. Lanrik glanced questioningly at the lòhren.
Aranloth shook his head. “It’s not likely to be help. Probably just the remainder of the Royal Guard.”
Lanrik knew he was right, but they were still hard words to hear. The lòhren-fire had given the hounds pause, but Aranloth could not be everywhere at once. Lanrik held the shazrahad sword tightly, but sweat was making his grip slippery. He would soon find out if naked steel was a match for otherworldly flesh. But the legends of Esgallien suggested that it was not.
14. Even the Earth Remembers
The hounds roamed the shadows. They came closer, their massive paws loud on the flagstones. They allowed themselves to be glimpsed, and their growls and snuffling breath possessed the night. Lanrik felt a wave of malevolence and sensed their purpose: they were trying to instil fear in order to panic their quarry into flight.
He took a deep breath. Clear like water; cold like ice. Remaining still, he noticed that Aranloth also waited patiently. He heard Erlissa move, and turned to see that she was calming the terrifie
d horses.
The hounds came closer. They were now in full view, and their muscles bunched and rippled beneath sleek coats as they padded. He sensed a change in their mood; a direct attack was imminent.
He prepared for their rush, but at that moment Aranloth swept his staff in a wide arc. White flame sprang from the broken foundations of the tower and joined the remaining wall behind them to form a continuous ring. Tongues of lòhren-fire, tinged red as once the embers of the destroyed building had glowed, danced and leaped in a man-high wall. Yet not so high that the beasts could not jump it.
The hounds backed away at first, and then they pressed close to the flame. They had been baulked, but their hunger to rend flesh grew into a frenzy, and they cavorted madly, growling and snapping at the air.
One of the beasts bunched its hind legs underneath it. Muscles bulging, it leaped over the ring of flame. It would have sailed clear, but a single tongue of lòhren-fire licked up and around its arched body. The hound twisted in the air. Landing awkwardly, it rolled on the ground to rid itself of the pale fire on its dark coat, but it adhered like burning oil.
The hound bit at the flame and came to its feet in rage. Its lips retracted hideously as it growled, and the red-tipped ears flattened. It prepared to attack, but Aranloth was quicker and he strode forward and thrust his staff toward its chest. Flame burst in a stream of white lòhrengai. It caught the hound squarely and drove it backward until it was knocked off its feet. Aranloth did not relent. The hound tried desperately to gather itself, but its growls turned to tortured yelps. The stench of burning hair and flesh filled the air, and in moments the creature was a mass of flame. When the lòhren-fire ceased, only ash remained.
There was no respite. The other hounds leaped over the barrier. As with their leader, tongues of white fire wrapped around them. They landed inside the ring and turned and snapped where the flame burned them.
Aranloth unleashed a spray of lòhren-fire. It caught two beasts and knocked them back, pinning them against the ring of flame. The wall flared at their touch, and they yelped while their massive bodies strained against the forces burning them. Lanrik saw that for all the damage being inflicted they could yet break free, but he had his own problem. The fourth hound approached him.
