King's Last Hope: The Complete Durlindrath Trilogy

by Robert Ryan

  Brand was in no hurry. He waited and watched, and Kareste did the same beside him. His feeling of unease grew, though he saw no sign of anything disturbing.

  The silence built. The only sound was that of the river, and far away the high-pitched call of the wheeling hawk. Insects flickered through the humid air, drawn to the water, and a fish leaped high and quick in search of a meal, and then dropped back with a splash into the river.

  Eventually, there was movement. A man emerged from behind one of the boulders halfway down the slope to the river’s edge.

  The man was scar faced and grim. He was tall, his black hair long and lank. His clothes seemed strange, a patchwork of items gathered here and there, none of them clean. A sword was belted at his side, and there was a lump here and there in his clothing where other weapons were likely hidden. Beneath thick brows his eyes were narrow and dark. Brand read meanness there, or worse, but the man tried to mask his natural features with a pretense of friendliness.

  “Well met, fellow travelers.”

  Brand inclined his head slightly, but he did not take his eyes off the man.

  “Hello,” he said in a voice that was friendly but not especially encouraging of further conversation.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just passing through,” Brand answered. He was attempting to be as short as he possibly could without being rude. He did not wish to start anything here, but he knew that the choice of that was not likely going to be his.

  The man showed a flicker of irritation, but he soon covered it. His strategy, and Brand knew it was a strategy, was to lull suspicion by friendly talk. He was not alone. Others remained hidden, and there was going to be trouble.

  “Perhaps you have some food to share with someone who hasn’t eaten in days?” The man said awkwardly. He had been forced to come to the point more quickly than he wished.

  Brand had seen the starved and the hungry before. Faces came to him out of the past, before he had come to Cardoroth. This man was neither of those things. Still, generosity was never a bad thing, and he would do whatever could be done to avoid a fight.

  “A little,” he answered, with a quick warning look to Kareste. “We’re willing to share what we have.”

  “Then come down by the river,” Scarface said. “It’s cool near the water.”

  There was a pause, and Brand made no move. “Come up and join us.”

  Scarface did not answer. There was a longer pause this time, and his expression slowly changed. The pretense of friendliness dropped away as he realized that he had not fooled the two travelers.

  “Come out, boys,” he said over his shoulder. “They’re on to us. Not that it’ll help them.”

  Men came out of their hiding spots. Some were concealed in the declivities; some behind boulders. Several even emerged from the water. They would have been set there as a last resort in case the riders sped through before any trap could be properly sprung.

  Brand noted that some of the men did indeed look hungry. But not Scarface, nor those who came to stand closest to him. Some were well armed and dressed, but he was pleased that none carried bows.

  Scarface spoke when his men had gathered around him.

  “It’s food we want, but we’ll take everything else as well.” His grin turned to a leer when he looked at Kareste.

  Brand wondered what the man would think if he knew of the massive diamond that was stashed away in one of his saddlebags. It was a kingly gift from Gilhain; and a gift that Brand had no intention of losing to the likes of Scarface and his men. Yet he and Kareste must cross the ford.

  In the silence that ensued, Scarface spoke again. “Most especially, I like your helm and sword.”

  Brand looked at him coolly. When he answered, his voice was neutral. He did not wish to provoke anything here if it could be avoided.

  “Both those items come at a high price.”

  Scarface laughed. “I have men enough to help me pay. More than enough.”

  Brand studied them with a casual glance. “No, you don’t.”

  15. It will be a Long Night

  The carnyx horns sang their unearthly song. It ran through Gilhain’s blood and made him feel young again. The retreat of the enemy buoyed him, and he held Aurellin’s hand. It was good to be alive, and though there could be no such thing as winning the war against an enemy that overpowered them, no one and nobody could take away this victory, no matter that it would be short lived.

  He felt a sense of overwhelming love. Aurellin’s hand in his felt warm and soft, and it was a bridge for the love that existed between them. They needed no words, no glance, and in truth did not even need to hold hands to express their feeling for each other. Gilhain felt it in the very air around him just by her presence, and he knew that she felt the same. But it was still nice to hold hands.

  “They’ll come again. And soon,” she said softly.

  “I know,” he answered. “I would do the same in their position. They cannot let their troops ponder the defeat of the lethrin for long – that would sap morale. They must now throw everything they can against us to distract their own from defeat, and to show us that no matter how many times we throw them back, they’ll come again. By doing that they’ll sap our own morale.”

  Aurellin nodded. “But is it possible to undermine the morale of an army that already acknowledges its ultimate defeat, and fights anyway?”

  Gilhain considered that. It was a good question. While he thought, he saw the first movements of the enemy.

  “That, we shall soon see,” he replied.

  Aurellin did not answer. She watched as did he, as did all the defenders, while a great wave of elugs came from the horde and surged toward the wall. Fear came before them, and among them were some of the lethrin who still lived, shamed by their earlier retreat and eager to regain their prestige as invincible warriors. But the defenders now knew that they were not, and fighting was always played out in the mind before ever a blow landed.

  The enemy crashed against the wall. The war drums thrashed. Up the elugs climbed; down were cast rocks and spears, and swift were the hissing arrows of the archers dispensed.

  On came the enemy. Ladders were toppled. Climbing ropes were severed. But still they came in a seething mass, intent on reaching the top and destroying all that Gilhain loved.

  The enemy crested the Cardurleth like a flood. Driven by sorcery or fear, compelled by their masters, they would not retreat this time. Either they were killed, or all would fall beneath their onslaught.

  The men met them. Sword crashed against sword. Cries filled the air. Red blood flowed, and the glint of weapons flashed like a thousand wicked suns.

  The great maces of the lethrin smashed all before them, but they were few and the elugs many. Yet the many filled the gaps the few provided, and together they pushed back the defenders, inch by inch.

  There was no respite. There was no mercy. Even in the long course of the siege there had never been a fight as this: desperate beyond desperation, filled with a vicious kill or be killed attitude that made all else that had gone before it seem as a game.

  The enemy seemed possessed, and well they might be. Gilhain wished that Aranloth were here, but he was not. A quick glance along the Cardurleth showed that the lòhrens held back. If this fight was going to be won by the defenders, force of arms and courage of heart alone would achieve it.

  The noise was deafening. Cries of fear and pain melded with the clash of blades and the tramp of boots. Over and above that the elug war drums vied with the carnyx horns. The din of it all together was hideous.

  But the horror before Gilhain’s eyes was worse. The stone was thick with gore. There seemed to be so much that it looked like the heavens had opened and rained blood. And through it were severed limbs and dead bodies and the innards of men and elugs spilled into the bright sunlight. The slaughterhouse of the Cardurleth was grotesque.

  But the smell that assaulted his nose was perhaps even worse. He retched. The stench
was near overpowering, and battle-hardened though he was, he had not experienced its like before.

  Yet beside him Aurellin looked on, her face a mask that hid her feelings. He knew she felt as he did, but there was steel in her. And whatever she felt she kept it in one part of her mind and allowed another to assess the battle dispassionately. And so must he.

  Things hung in the balance. No battle could long continue at this ferocity. One side must soon gain the advantage. And the defenders were being pushed back. More and more elugs came to the wall, and when one fell, two took its place. Yet the lethrin, now few in number, were not immune to death. They fell and died, though it took many men to bring them down. While the men did this, the elugs gathered about them in their turn and killed them.

  Gilhain wondered what he could do next. Had the time come to wield his own blade? Could he rally the defenders by joining the fray? Yet there was risk in that, for the enemy would be drawn to him like moths to a flame: if they killed him the heart would go out of the defense.

  He fingered the hilt of his sword. Then Aurellin put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Wait,” she mouthed, for her voice would not carry above the screaming mayhem of battle.

  He followed her gaze, for though her hand was on his shoulder she did not look at him.

  A large man caught his eye. He was part of a group that surged forward against the enemy. But the group was soon hammered down by the broad sweeps of a lethrin mace and the quick stabs of elugs that darted in and out, swords flashing, in their massive companion’s wake.

  But the man had not fallen. Alone now, and nearly as massive as the lethrin, he strode forward, his eyes bent on his great adversary with grim determination.

  Gilhain did not know who the man was. He was just an ordinary soldier. But there was an air to his movements, in the intent look on his face, that signaled that something extraordinary was about to happen, and the hair prickled all the way up the back of the king’s neck.

  The man threw down his blade. It rang against the stones and shattered. Hundreds of eyes turned to him, and hundreds more when his mighty voice boomed out.

  “Fight me!” the big man called, and his challenge rose above the mad din of the battle.

  The elugs darted in to kill him, but he shrugged them aside, his mail protecting him from the worst of their blows.

  He went straight for the lethrin. The lethrin raised high his mace. As a thunderbolt it fell, hurtling through the air, but the big man was quicker than he looked. With a slight move, only just enough, he stepped to the side. The mace smashed into the stone and sent chips flying, but the big man was moving again.

  Incredibly, the lone soldier reached out with his meaty hands and grappled with the lethrin. One hand pinned the arm that held the mace, the other gripped the creature’s throat like a vice.

  There the two of them stood and strained against each other. The elugs began to land blows against the man, but he ignored them. And then an archer let fly arrows that sang through the air and stuck in several elug throats in the space of two heartbeats.

  The elugs hunkered down. The man and the lethrin continued their struggle alone. The great creature tried to raise his mace, but the man held his arm pinned with a strength that Gilhain did not think a man could possess. All the while the breathing of the creature grew labored, and what air it could get whistled in loud rasping gulps down its throat.

  The lethrin hammered his other arm against the man, smashing his fist into head and body, but the helmet and mail offered some protection, and grimly the man endured the blows. Soon the lethrin turned instead to trying to prize away the death grip from his throat, but nothing loosed it.

  Eventually, the lethrin dropped the mace. He could not bring it to bear, but by letting go of its great weight he now had a better chance to lift up his pinned arm. This he did, slowly but surely, reaching up to try to break the grip that suffocated him.

  But the man, not quite able to match strength for strength, was not done yet. He swiftly changed his grip, letting go of both throat and arm, and then in one swift motion he shuffled closer and took the lethrin in a bear hug.

  There the two combatants stood. The man tightened his grip. The lethrin rained mighty blows upon him with both fists. Bright blood ran from beneath the soldier’s helmet, and then the helm flew loose from his head revealing a shock of red hair and a battered face, swollen and cut.

  The two of them staggered back and forth beneath the strain of the forces they brought to bear.

  “Watch!” hissed Aurellin.

  Gilhain could not have taken his eyes off the scene even if he had wanted to, but he felt the first inkling of an idea of what would happen next, just as had she, and time seemed to slow.

  The lethrin drove the man back a step, but the man was not beaten. As he retreated he sunk his weight lower, and then, incredibly, beyond the anticipation of all but a few, he heaved the lethrin off the ground.

  There he stood a moment, his legs near buckling under enormous strain. The battle all around had ceased and it seemed as though the struggle between the opposing masses was now centered on the two combatants alone.

  And then the man staggered forward, still holding the lethrin above the ground, ignoring the blows landed upon him by the desperate creature.

  He tottered forward, his grip unbreakable, and drove the lethrin into a section of the battlement wall that was not yet repaired.

  The lethrin ceased his useless striking and took the man in a headlock. For just a moment, as the creature’s arms moved, Gilhain glimpsed the beaten face of the soldier. It was a bloody mess, and the flesh around the eyes had swollen so much that Gilhain doubted the man could even see any more.

  There the soldier stood for several long moments. The stonework crumbled. A crack ran through it, and all the while the man not only held the lethrin up, but also continued to drive forward with his failing strength.

  With a final heave the man pushed the lethrin through the crumbling wall. He knew what would happen. He knew, and the lethrin soon realized it. The massive creature screamed, perhaps the first of his normally silent kind to voice terror atop the walls of a besieged city.

  Slowly, surely, inexorably they tumbled over together, locked in their embrace. The man was silent. The fear-filled below of the lethrin invoked a sense of sympathy – even among the defenders. But Gilhain’s thoughts were mostly of the brave soldier, now slipped from sight. Who was he? Was he married? Where had such courage come from?

  But Gilhain knew the battle hung in the balance, and he had no time for sentimentality. The soldier had chosen his own time to die, now Gilhain must use that sacrifice to save his people a little longer, for he saw now how it could be done.

  The battle had come to a standstill. Men, elugs and lethrin stood in shock. Gilhain was the first to act. He signaled quickly for the carnyx horns to start again – they had fallen silent. But without waiting he leaped toward the enemy taking all by surprise, even the Durlin who stood near.

  His great sword swung. Blood flowed. Elugs died, and he cried Cardoroth! at every stroke of his blade. The defenders saw their king smite the enemy, and they followed suite. Courage swelled their hearts, and dismay fell upon their opponents. They could not believe what they had just witnessed, and they could not rally.

  The defenders drove into them. They pushed them back. The windrows of dead and dying lay thick on the battlement; the living were caught between a plunging death behind them and a storm of flashing blades ahead of them.

  The king was not alone. Aurellin was with him, her own short sword slicing and stabbing, and around them, trying their best to protect them, were the Durlin.

  The white surcoats of the Durlin were stained with blood. But none of it was theirs. They slew with skill and speed that astonished even Gilhain, and the enemy fled before them, fighting among themselves to find the ropes and climb down the battlement to safety.

  But the ropes were few, and elugs were climbing up them from below.
None escaped that way. The swords of the defenders cut them down until none were left save those starting to climb, and these began to turn and flee.

  Gilhain looked along the Cardurleth. It was the same elsewhere. The enemy had been routed once more, and yet it had come at a price.

  Men hurled the dead bodies of the elugs over the wall. They piled down below, burying the serpent. Gilhain wondered if the enemy intended to build a ramp of their own dead in order to reach the top of the wall. They had the numbers to do it. But in any civilized war, if there was such a thing, the besieging army would take away their dead at prearranged times without fear of being shot by arrows. But the enemy had made no such request of Gilhain. Rather, their leadership preferred to use the stench as a weapon, hoping to make the defenders uncomfortable, no matter that it did the same to their own soldiers and provided a breeding ground for disease.

  But the enemy dead were not the only ones. Brave soldiers of Cardoroth had died also – by the hundreds. There were too many to be taken away all at once, and the dead lay there, their eyes vacant, and in their exhaustion the defenders who yet lived sat down beside them. At times it was hard to tell who was alive and who was dead. And though they had just now won a great victory, it could not go on like this indefinitely. Cardoroth was a big city, but it could not match the enemy soldier for soldier. They must not take so many losses in the future.

  All the while the wild carnyx horns had been blowing. If they were eerie before, they were more so now in the sudden silence after the enemy’s retreat. Now, however, the horns took up a new note. It was only a subtle difference, but there was in it a hint of victory. And well the army deserved it; they had fought for it and it was pleasing to see the enemy, a disorganized mass, heads low, officers barking orders, faces sullen and most of all – the hateful elug war drums gone quiet.