by Robert Ryan
She looked at him sternly. No flicker of doubt crossed her face. All he saw was disbelief – either at all or part of what he said.
“I insist. And don’t think that your veiled threat carries any weight. I have little fear of elugs or sorcerers. And less fear of you. Speak!”
Brand told her what he must. He spoke swiftly of the siege of Cardoroth, of an artifact that the elùgroths used to enhance their power. He explained that Aranloth must stay there, with the other lòhrens to hold the enemy off. She seemed doubtful at all this, not convinced that Aranloth would do such a thing, but she did not interrupt.
He told her all that he could, even saying that he must retrieve the second half of Shurilgar’s staff, but he did not tell her where he must seek for it.
She listened, but did not lower her hands. “That isn’t everything. Tell me all, and then I will decide your fate.”
Brand hesitated. Here was a dilemma that none in the city foresaw, not even Aranloth. Yet it was for him to decide now what must be done, and the lòhren and the king could not help. But if he misspoke, then secrets long held could be revealed to the wrong people. Yet there was little in any of it that the enemy did not already guess.
“The second half of the staff has long been hidden in the tombs of the Letharn,” he revealed.
At that name a hiss escaped her lips. She stared at him, doubt showing on her face for the first time.
She shook her head. “What could Aranloth possibly be thinking? I don’t understand any of this,” she said slowly. “You have certainly not revealed all, but you have said enough, at least for the moment. Few know the name that you have just uttered. If nothing else is true, then at least I believe that he told you that. But the staff and the diadem…”
As she spoke she lowered her hands. The fire at her fingertips snuffed out and she straightened.
“Well,” she said. “It seems that I must save you after all. But you’ll not survive the tombs. That place is dangerous beyond your reckoning, no matter how much Aranloth warned you. The quest will not succeed. You should turn aside from it now, while you still can.”
Brand let go of the hilt of his sword, but he did not take his gaze from her.
“I’ll not turn aside,” he said, suddenly riled. He glared at her for a moment before adding, “And I will succeed.”
She looked back at him squarely. “So sure?”
“I must be sure,” he answered. “Too much depends on it for me to fail, and I will not. Now, what of you? You have magic at your command—”
“Lòhrengai,” she interrupted. “The power of lòhrens. Magic is a term which the uneducated use.”
Brand gritted his teeth. He had heard the word before, but even Aranloth seemed content for people to say magic.
He shrugged. “Call it what you will. Yet you name yourself a lòhren, and seem keen to prove the point, but where is your own staff? Are you really a lòhren? The better now that I see you, and the longer that I talk to you, the more I begin to doubt it.”
She looked at him contemptuously. “Maybe I carry no staff just at the moment, but I am, and always will be, a lòhren. Then she added, “My staff was broken.”
Brand might be a wild man of the Duthenor, as some in Cardoroth called him, but he knew a lie when he heard it, else he would have died long before he ever came to the city. And that had been a lie. Whether she possessed a staff or not, and whatever might have happened to it he could not know for sure, but he sensed this much at least: it was not broken.
But she need not know that he discerned that. “I must go,” he said. “It might still be possible to evade the elugs. You’ve given me a greater chance at that, so thank you.”
He started to move away, truly thankful for what she had done but not wishing to continue their involvement. His instinct was to trust her, but everything she said led him away from that.
“Wait,” she said, holding up her palm. “I’ll take you away – you won’t escape without me. And I’m heading toward the Angle myself, so we may as well journey together, at least part of the way.”
Brand looked back at her and showed nothing of what he thought. Yet those words were her second lie. She had not intended until just now to go anywhere near the Angle. And while lòhrens might withhold information, they did not lie.
She might be less than a lòhren, or perhaps in some ways more. But one thing he knew for certain was that she was not what she made herself out to be.
But the question was, what was he going to do about it? He needed help, but dare he trust her?
11. The Gleam of Eyes
Brand had little time to think.
The smoke had dissipated, and the elugs now moved on with their search. He sensed also that there were more of them now. The ones that he had seen so far were just the leaders of the pack – the elùgroths were not taking any chances on his escape.
Before he could do anything there was noise from close by. The two of them hunkered down and remained still. A few moments later several elugs crept through the trees near them, scimitars drawn, but they moved on without pause and soon disappeared into the gloom once more.
Brand waited until he had heard no sound from the group for several minutes before he stood.
The moment of choice was on him, and there would be little time before the next group of elugs came their way. The noise of many nearby told him so.
He gave her a quick nod, signifying that he was willing to join forces, at least for the moment. He would have spoken, but she understood his agreement and lifted a finger to her lips.
She looked around, perhaps using senses other than sight to locate the elugs, and then she leaned in close and whispered softly in his ear.
“They are all around us,” she said. “They fill the forest, but they cannot search the lake. Stay silent. Watch. And learn.”
She stepped back from him, leaning against a tree trunk and almost disappearing even from his own view. And though he could barely see her, he could hear her. She muttered under her breath. He could not catch the words, nor even the language, for her voice was so soft as to seem little more than the faint rustle of leaves or the slow creak of branch and root in the forest.
She was not speaking to him. Rather, she softly chanted into the night, for though he understood nothing of what she said, he heard the rhythmic rise and fall of her voice. What she was doing he did not know, except that it was some kind of magic – or lòhrengai as she would have him call it.
He looked about him in the dark. He saw nothing happening, but then again he did not know what to look for. Whatever else she was, she had power at her command, and she was invoking it now for a purpose. He must watch and wait to see what it was.
Harsh voices drifted through the forest. The elugs called to one another. Perhaps they had seen some mark or track of those they pursued. The night grew darker. Everything seemed breathless, and the pinewoods brooded in shadowy stillness.
He looked away from the forest and out over the beach, and then to the lake. The first tendrils of fog were rising from it. He nearly looked away again, but then he realized something was wrong.
The silvery tendrils moved ahead and rose up onto the beach with purpose, probing their way toward the tree line. He had seen fog like that before, and recently. It reminded him of the sorcerous attack on the king.
Even as he watched the fog gathered speed. It grew thicker too, rising now in clouds above the lake like steam from boiling water.
Long vaporish arms reached out, stretched into the trees and caused things to become even darker. It sailed above their heads, blotting out the starlight. Soon it was so thick that very little could be seen at all.
It was cold and clammy. But then he felt her hand, surprisingly warm against his own, and she led him away from their hiding spot and down through the thick fog onto the beach. No one could see them now, but the water would be dangerously cold and he saw no real hope of escaping that way.
She led him over the rough sand
. They were nothing more than two fleeting half-shadows in a world of mist, and for the first time in a while he felt safe. Yet with that thought came the realization that fog or not, there were very many eyes that sought him. Safety was scarcer at the moment than light itself.
The rough sand gave way to a muddy surface. The actual water’s edge was still a little way off, but guiding him firmly with her hand the girl did not lead him to it but parallel with it. That puzzled him.
Reeds grew about them. They rustled as the two of them entered, and the noise grew louder but it could not be helped. The reeds swiftly grew tall and thick, but go as slow as she might yet still every movement sent a shiver up their stalks and shook down cold drops of water.
He knew it would be hard to spot in the murk, but they had left a trail over the sand and into the reeds. It would not be hard to follow once seen, and he did not like it. Still less did he like not knowing what her plan was. Yet she had one, of that he was certain.
She paused, becoming suddenly still. He stood behind her, barely daring to breathe, but he heard nothing. Nor could he see anything, for the reeds and fog obscured all. There was only her firm handgrip: warm, strong, confident.
He realized that it was not just quiet. It was too quiet. There was no sound among the trees of searching elugs, either close at hand or far away. There was no noise of shouts and harsh voices. There was nothing save the whisper of wet reeds close by and a brooding menace from the dark of the trees further away, which he could not see but still felt.
“There’s something wrong,” she whispered. “The enemy is close, for all their silence, but it’s as if they’re waiting. For what, I cannot guess.”
Brand knew she was right, and he had no desire to try to guess. Whatever reason they had, it was unlikely to mean anything good.
She sensed his mood and began to move again, drawing him forward more swiftly now, almost careless of noise.
The reeds gave way at length, and they stood in a kind of clearing. Wet sand and gravel churned beneath their feet, but the reeds were still all around. It was like a little glade in the forest. But the reeds now seemed ominous rather than their friend. While they were in them, they offered cover. In the open, surrounded by them, they were a place where their enemies could hide – could be hiding even now, peering through stems and fog to study their prey.
She moved to the left. The shore was there, the silvery water of the lake still and placid. She stepped into the water.
Brand wondered if he should discard his chain mail. He was loath to do so, for it might yet save his life, but it might also kill him in the water.
But she did not lead him in any deeper than a foot or so. She moved back into the reeds, though he saw these were now of a different kind: taller, thinner, more grass-like.
Within moments she found what she sought, and he better understood her plan.
“I didn’t know you had a boat,” he whispered.
“It’s a shuffa,” she corrected. “At least, that’s what my people used to call them.”
She took hold of the craft and deftly undid the rope that held it to the base of some bunched reeds. The vessel was strange to Brand’s eyes, nearly round, and made of some light timber over which was stretched hide. It hardly looked like it would serve as a boat, but he did not question her. That, he guessed, would prove fruitless.
“Are you any good with boats?” she asked.
Brand shook his head. His people were farmers rather than fishermen. He’d had little experience of such things, and as usual, she had a knack for pinpointing his weaknesses.
“Never mind,” she answered shortly. “I’ll take us out into the water. Step carefully, and don’t turn us over as you move around.”
She took the only oar in the shuffa and steadied herself with it while she stepped in and gracefully sat down.
Brand gritted his teeth and followed suit. He moved carefully, yet still the boat wobbled dangerously in the water.
The girl stared at him, but held her tongue until he was seated.
“Ready?” she asked.
But then she began to row without waiting for his response. With slow but powerful strokes she got them underway. She took great care to paddle smoothly so that there was barely any noise and no splashing of water.
The shuffa moved into deeper water. It floated very well, surprisingly well to Brand considering it was little more than a near round shell, but it was hard to steer. At times she rowed with her back to the shore, at others the craft spun around in the water and she rowed facing it. Yet slowly and surely they drew away from the bank.
The land was now a vague line. The beach stood out, a pale strip in the fog, and the forest beyond was nothing more than a dark smudge. But from that smudge elugs suddenly emerged. They paused, saw their prey, and then drew their bows to shoot. It was some distance, yet not so far that arrows could not kill, though the accurate aiming of them would be harder.
Brand hunkered down, lifting up Aranloth’s staff and lowering his head so that his helm would better protect him.
The girl paddled faster now, careless of the noise. Secrecy and quiet no longer served.
Arrows whistled past in the dark. Some struck the water nearby. Some flew wild into the fog. One would have struck him as the boat tilted sideways but with a deft movement and surprising reflexes the girl flicked the oar and deflected it.
After that, the arrows began to fall short or go wide. They were now very nearly out of sight, and deep within the fog that still rose from the cold waters of the lake.
The elugs stopped shooting. Not only that, their dim forms seemed to part: some moving left and others right. Brand thought it strange, for they might yet have continued to shoot a few moments longer.
The girl slowed her rowing a little. “Once again I’ve saved your life. Am I going to have to baby you all the way to the Angle?”
Brand felt his patience slip. Yet what she said was true. She had saved his life several times tonight. He owed her, and he did not take such debts lightly. Yet it was irksome, for it meant that she held power over him. Despite her manner, there was something about her that attracted him also: she was dangerous, strong willed, beautiful and mysterious. He wanted to see her in the light of day, and that line of thought upset him. It was another way that she might hold power over him, and he did not like that. He did not like it at all
He looked back at the barely visible shore, and thought that they were free. But it was not so. Through the parted ranks of the elugs he saw a shadow. Swift it came onward, and the elugs recoiled further away from it. And then he realized that it was not one shadow, but three.
Whatever they were, they leapt out from the shore as one, and though they made no sound of themselves, their huge bodies crashed into the water with a great splash. Foamy water frothed all around them and great waves spread out.
The girl rowed faster. Brand studied the creatures, but he could not tell what they were, except that they were not elugs. They were something else entirely.
As he watched they continued to swim, pressing closer. He saw that they were four legged, for they had the form of massive hounds, yet they held their heads high up out of the water, and there was a look to them that was not as of a hound, but rather of an elug – or a man.
A chill ran up Brand’s spine. Foul sorcery! For whatever these creatures were, they did not swim or tread the earth of their own volition. They were made, called forth as were the drùghoth, and he sensed in the growing gleam of their approaching eyes a desperate madness.
The foul beasts drew closer. The elugs, closing ranks again, began to hoot and shout.
They faded from view, but the beasts came on faster than the girl could row. Or else they still ran, their great paws reaching down to the lake bottom, for he saw that they were massive, much larger than any wolf or hound that he had ever seen.
He cast about desperately for something to do to help the girl, but he had no bow, and there was only one paddle, and she
was more skilled with it than he.
The shuffa came to deeper water. The fog thickened, but the beasts were closer, and he saw malevolence in their blood-shot eyes. And he felt the ill will of the sorcerers who had created them, looking out and staring at him hungrily.
12. We Do Not Yield!
Gilhain was surrounded by the Durlin. He trusted them. They called him by name, and he knew as much, or perhaps more, of their everyday lives as their friends did. Yet without Brand among them, at one moment solemn and deadly serious, at another laughing and carefree, but ever-watchful, he felt suddenly vulnerable.
The Durlin had courage, but when necessity demanded, pure ice ran through Brand’s veins. He knew fear, as any wise man did, but it never stopped him. Where other men hesitated, he acted. Where other men were cowed by terror, he stood tall. Where other men broke, he found strength within himself to endure. He had proven all these things, or Gilhain would not have made him Durlindrath.
Without his constant shadow, ever-present but always in the background, Gilhain realized how easy it would be for an assassin to kill him. The Durlin were good, the best bodyguards in all of Alithoras, but without Brand to lead them they were lessened. For it was not skill that made the difference, nor friendship, but a deep and abiding affection more like that between father and son.
Gilhain shrugged his worries aside. He could not function if he dwelled on the risk to himself, and Cardoroth needed him to function. The attacks of the enemy had stepped up. It was the next day after Brand had left, and something had stiffened the enemy’s resolve. All night their sorcerous chanting rolled and echoed through the city. At dawn, the attacks began. Wave after wave of maddened elugs sought to take the walls. Aranloth claimed the elùgroths used sorcery to work them into a frenzy, and Gilhain believed it.
Another attack was forming now. The war drums beat louder than ever. The elug chant, not sorcerous as was that of the elùgroths, yet still a powerful sap to morale, rose and beat at the Cardurleth like a physical assault:
