by Robert Ryan
Lòrenta’s library overwhelmed him with choice, and at first, he did not know what to read. He had followed his inclinations though, first studying his own nation, and then the wider expanse of Alithoras and the history of its lands and peoples.
He strode through the library. Lore was gathered here that would stagger the most learned in Alithoras, and a lifetime of study would not encompass a hundredth part of it. There were histories of realms that had long since ceased to exist or been transformed by the chances of time; there were treatises on the diseases of livestock and their effective treatments as well as discourses on topics as variable as the habits of nudaluk birds or the building of ships. Nothing was too grand or too small for the lòhrens’ thirst for knowledge. All life, learning and history was precious to them, and the body of lore constantly expanded for they frequently returned from many lands to record their experiences.
He walked down a long corridor that had aisle after aisle running off it, each containing innumerable shelves laden with closely packed books and scrolls. It was only one of many; the Halls of Lore were massive.
Lòrenta was a fortress, walled and many-towered, though ùhrengai rather than soldiers guarded it, and its ramparts were symbolic rather than practical. The stronghold represented the lòhrens’ undertaking to protect knowledge and defend the people of Alithoras.
The walls were rendered with white marble, and the slender towers pierced the air. The battlements were both high and deep, but it was the ùhrengai that would repel any sorcerous attack. He doubted the elùgroth intended such a thing, though his purpose would nevertheless be malevolent.
He exited the library and entered the great courtyard at the heart of the fortress. Trees, gardens and soft-grassed lawns covered it; sunlight streamed down from the square of open sky high above. Students, many of them otherwise homeless or orphaned, sat on the ground or on wooden benches discoursing with their teachers. These were often not lòhrens but former students who excelled at their own studies.
He reached the middle of the courtyard and stopped momentarily to observe the fountain that dominated it. It was constructed of white granite, and the centerpiece of the basin was a tall statue of a lòhren. The figure thrust his staff in the air, and water shot out its end before falling in a frothy cascade over his shoulders and splashing into the pool.
This was one of Lonfar’s favorite places. It was calm, and tranquility seemed to settle everywhere with the gentle mist of water that wafted from the fountain. Ringing it were white benches where the lòhrens often met, even sometimes the Lòhrenin itself when its members were recalled from abroad.
It was at this very spot that Aranloth had offered him a permanent role in their community. It was here that he had renounced his old life and turned to the new. He had found a friend here, and the serenity he often lacked elsewhere that caused him to say what should not be said. Aranloth called it the Eye of the Storm, for deep in the earth whence the water sprang was also the source of the ùhrengai that protected Lòrenta. When provoked, it could wreak destruction on enemies outside the fortress, but within it emanated harmony.
With regret, he continued across the courtyard until he entered the fortress’s corridors again. As elsewhere, they were wide and well lit by many windows, and he walked them for what seemed a long time. The distance to the gate-tower did not worry him; he was not a young man anymore, but he retained the fitness of his youth, and he could walk from sunup to sundown. He hoped some of his other talents remained too: he would need them.
He eventually came to the tower and climbed its spiral stairway. At the open aired top, he found Aratar and the other half dozen lòhrens currently resident in the fortress. In winter there would be many more, but during summer they were dispersed to the far reaches of Alithoras.
They turned and looked at him but did not speak. He sensed their unease and broke the silence himself.
“I understand an elùgroth has come?”
Aratar pointed a long and bony arm over the battlements. “See for yourself.”
Lonfar stepped close and looked over the stonework. Hills surrounded the fortress; the higher slopes were moorland covered with ling and bracken while a scattering of stunted trees and dwarf shrubs hunkered low to the ground. He spotted several kestrels that hovered and wheeled, their keen eyes seeking the movement of mice or voles.
He drew his gaze nearer and saw the elùgroth. A large birch wood covered the lower land in front of the fortress. The sorcerer stood outside its eaves, his black cloak in stark contrast with the silver-white trunks of the trees. He was not trying to hide; he merely waited.
Lonfar knew what would happen next, and he took a few moments to compose himself. His gaze wondered to the moorland, and he sought the peace that he had often found exploring those lonely slopes. The ling was not yet in flower, though when it commenced later in summer the hills would blaze with purple. In autumn, deer would begin the rut, and the roaring of stags would carry across the wastes. The soil, shallow and acidic, promoted little growth except for the ling, and on lower slopes birch trees. Fog often blanketed the wild hills, and they were perilous to traverse because of the many waterfalls, crags and deep tarns.
As much as he tried, he could not find the tranquility he sought. Memory alone did not serve, and he turned his attention back to the elùgroth. The sorcerer was motionless. He gave no sign and made no aggressive move, but the malice in him buffeted the fortress in waves. This was not any elùgroth, but one of their masters. He was adept in lore that would crush the soul of an ordinary man.
If they wished to find out what he wanted, someone would have to leave Lòrenta and speak to him.
Lonfar knew the lòhrens would ask him to do it, and he did not blame them. He had no lòhrengai and could not defend himself; but likewise he was not a threat, and in that manner a fight might be avoided. Also, they would want him to check if there were others, a task for which he was better suited. After all, he had the skills of a Raithlin. He had renounced his old life for good reason, but it seemed fate was determined to thrust it back at him.
“Do you want me to talk to him?”
“Yes,” Aratar said. “You’re the logical choice.”
“And if he attacks?”
“We don’t think he will. We’re mindful that you’ve sworn an oath never to draw a blade again – but we ask what we must. No one here will think worse of you should you be forced to try and defend yourself.”
Lonfar looked at the old men around him. They were kindly people and uncomfortable with what they were doing. He did not suppose Aranloth would have asked it of him. Or would he? Necessity was a hard taskmaster.
Aratar was waiting patiently for a response. He looked at him serenely from bright eyes below the diadem that all lòhrens wore.
“I’ll do it.”
The old man nodded, and Lonfar sensed a release of tension in the others.
“Come around from behind him,” Aratar said. “We want to know if there are others.”
“How long has he been there? Lonfar asked.
“He was first seen at dawn and hasn’t moved since. You’ll have time to scout; we don’t think he’ll go anywhere until he’s said what he’s come for.”
Lonfar nodded in agreement and turned to walk back the way he had come.
“Good luck,” Aratar said.
Flashing the lòhren a tight grin, he descended the stairs. He returned to his room and pulled out a pine chest stored under his bed, then opened it.
On top was his Raithlin cloak, neatly folded but worn and travel stained. The trotting fox stitched into its breast brought back memories, but he pushed them aside. Now was not a time for reverie.
Underneath the cloak lay a polished aurochs horn. It was old, a family heirloom that had passed through the hands of generations. It reminded him of the wild spaces of Galenthern that he loved and yearned for. Perhaps that was why he liked the moors so much. They were both wild and free places where a man felt infinitesimally sma
ll and yet an integral part of things.
He put the horn aside; it would serve no purpose in his mission. What he needed was his sword. It lay beside its sheath, untouched since the day he had entered these walls, but coated with oil and rust free.
He reached for it, took hold of its hilt, and paused.
It felt good in his hand, and he might need it, but what he needed most was diplomacy. He would have to ensure he said nothing to provoke the elùgroth, but that was his weak point; that was why Aranloth had brought him here in the first place. He had a habit of saying what he thought, and it had always got him in trouble. His words to Murhain were the worst though. They had put a price on his head. And the price remained. Assassins were still looking for him. They had found him often enough, and he was tired of the killing. Aranloth’s suggestion to come to Lòrenta and leave the name of Conrik behind had been good.
The sword was part of his old life. It had always come to his hand as easily as cutting words to his mouth. Either could get him in trouble. But the sword had spilled blood, killed people, and he had no wish to do that again. He had sworn to end the days of his fighting, and he would keep that promise.
He threw back the blade with a clatter and slammed down the lid of the chest. He would not carry it again, no matter that the lòhrens approved. They might not judge him, but he would judge himself. It was stupid to face an elùgroth without it, even if its usefulness against a sorcerer was doubtful, but he had made his oath for good reason, and it was a promise to himself that he would not break.
He put on the Raithlin cloak and left the fortress through a rear entrance and skirted the birch wood. Moving with slow purpose, he studied the terrain as he walked. He chose the route of maximum cover and watched the ground with care, looking for spoor.
For a long while, he found nothing but the pear-shaped tracks of foxes and traces of the shy but ubiquitous deer that roamed the hills. A fog rolled down from the moors and swept over the wood. He came to rocky ground and a mist-topped tarn, its water dark and still. The periphery was thick with reeds and swathes of bracken that dripped with dew, and it was here that he discovered the elùgroth’s tracks. The heel imprint of his left boot, marked with a drùgluck sign to warn people against following, was clear. The tracks were well spaced, the paces of a tall man who stepped with purpose and made no effort to conceal himself.
He traced them back for some half an hour, looking to see if others had come with him and split away before reaching the wood. He found nothing. The sorcerer was alone, and now he must face up to his hardest task: to speak with him and discover what he wanted.
He retraced his steps to the birch wood. Entering it, he walked easily and quickly. The wood was open, far more so than the woods of Esgallien, and though it provided cover he chose not to use it. He did not wish to surprise the sorcerer; that could lead to a misunderstanding and would be a mistake. Instead, he sang a song with a rousing chorus that was once popular in Esgallien’s less reputable taverns and boldly declared his presence.
As he approached the end of the wood, he caught blazing glimpses of Lòrenta’s white walls through gaps in the timber. He walked wide of where he had earlier seen the elùgroth and came out into the open before he swung around toward him.
He was still there. The lòhrens, mere figures in the distance, watched from their high vantage on top of the gate-tower. He could sense their anticipation. He fancied he could also feel their relief that it was not them out here. He did not blame them; this was a high-ranking elùgroth, likely beyond even their combined power, and their logic that he had the greatest chance of survival, though unfortunate for him, was impeccable.
It was unlikely the elùgroth had come to attack them though. Lòrenta’s defenses would render an assault against the fortress futile, and there would be little to gain from killing an ordinary man outside its walls. Nevertheless, the skin along his spine grew cold and tight while his palms dampened with sweat.
He breathed deeply and tried to calm himself by logically working through the situation. The pivotal question was why the elùgroth had come. He could not think of a specific reason but knew his purpose was malevolent. Whatever the sorcerer said he must keep his reaction to it unemotional and give nothing away about what he thought. His job would be to listen carefully and pass on any message for the lòhrens.
The elùgroth was unnaturally motionless. He was a towering figure, seven feet tall, though some of that was attributable to his knee-length boots. They were iron-shod and midnight black, as were his robes. His head was deeply cowled, and his face obscured; only his hands showed where they gripped a dark and supple wych-wood staff. They were bone white and blue-veined.
Lonfar halted ten paces away. That was close enough.
The sorcerer’s body did not move, but the cowled head pivoted toward him with purpose, and he felt the pressure of a chill gaze from the shadowed face. When the figure spoke, his voice was remote like the rumble of slow thunder on Galenthern and cold as storm-driven rain.
“They sent a servant?”
The elùgroth leaned slightly forward and scrutinized him. The skin of his face became visible; it was pallid and bloated but the eyes remained hidden.
“Perhaps I should kill you to demonstrate my displeasure?”
Lonfar felt a sudden rush of temper but held it in check. Pompous fool.
“That would let the lòhrens know what you think. The only problem is that afterwards they wouldn’t send anyone else.”
“Are they cowards that they come not themselves?”
Lonfar shrugged. “Does it matter? None of this brings us to the point.”
The elùgroth’s expression sharpened, and Lonfar understood why people sometimes fainted in their presence. But he could play games as well as anyone and looked where they eyes would be and waited silently.
The elùgroth laughed, low and cold like the grinding of river ice in the spring thaw.
“I will not kill you. I, Elù-Randùr, shall give you simple words to repeat to your masters instead . . . if you can remember them.”
Lonfar’s temper got the better of him, and he replied with sarcasm. “I’ll try my best. If I forget, I’ll improvise.”
Elù-Randùr was still and silent for so long that Lonfar feared he had gone too far. He gave a slight shrug. He would treat the elùgroth the same as anybody else and damn the consequences. His hand itched for a sword hilt though.
“You have an insolent tongue.”
“I’ve heard that before. But the sooner you give me your message the sooner you’re rid of me.”
The elùgroth raised the wych-wood staff in his left hand and levelled it at him. Blue veins ran spider-like up his pallid forearms, but the muscles underneath were hard as iron bundles.
“My message is this,” the elùgroth said. “Listen carefully, for I shall only say it once.”
Elù-Randùr spoke briefly and explained what he wished the lòhrens to know. When he finished Lonfar backed away. His mind reeled as he turned and walked to the fortress. He listened for any sound behind him indicating treachery, but if the elùgroth was going to kill him he would already have done so.
Each step that brought him closer to the lòhrens became harder for he bore a burden that weighed him down. What he had learned could be a ruse, but he did not think so. He had heard both satisfaction and expectation in the elùgroth’s voice, and he was convinced.
He reached the portcullis, and it lifted smoothly allowing him admittance. The lòhrens had come down from the tower, anxious with curiosity, but he dreaded to relieve it. The metal grid dropped behind him with a mighty clamor.
“Well?” Aratar said.
“The elùgroth is alone.”
“What did he say?” asked one of the others.
Lonfar answered with reluctance. “Lòrenta, the elùgroth told me, will soon be ruined. He offers us a choice. If we give him control of the ùhrengai that protects it, he will permit us to leave safely. Stay, and we will be sent to ob
livion.”
The lòhrens were confused and spoke all at once.
“He can’t be serious,” said one.
“The fortress is impenetrable,” said another.
Aratar seemed less sure and wanted more information. “Did he say anything else?”
“He knew you would doubt him. He acknowledges the fortress cannot be destroyed, but he claims it can be forced into the spirit word. They have discovered a way to use a Morleth Stone to do so. Our choice is to yield Lòrenta, and all that is in it, or face doom when he is joined by others of his kind.”
The lòhrens fell into debate. Some thought it was a bluff; others, chief among them Aratar, thought it might be possible.
Lonfar had no doubt. The enemy had devised a way to get around the defensive ùhrengai. He did not need to understand the whys and wherefores to appreciate the fact. In the end, the lòhrens could not risk anything other than to work on the basis that it was true and choose a response accordingly. Should they hand over the fortress and save the children, or should they hold fast?
He had already made up his mind. Ultimately, the decision rested with Aratar though. He was the highest authority in the fortress. He had a brilliant mind and was a strong-willed man, but Lonfar worried about the trusting side of his nature.
16. Light of the Half Moon
Lanrik was weary beyond exhaustion. His eyes were dry and gritty from lack of sleep, and he shifted continuously in his saddle to find a more comfortable position. But he could not rest, for time was running out. They had ridden hard and slept little for the two days that it had taken them to reach Enorìen. The mistletoe berries must be harvested tonight: the next half moon would be too late.
The rolling hills in front of them were overgrown with dense forest. The angle of the afternoon sun turned the hillcrests yellow-green and the valleys below into pools of shadow. The land seemed wild and impenetrable, yet Aranloth assured them it could be travelled.
