King's Last Hope: The Complete Durlindrath Trilogy

by Robert Ryan

  He shrugged, and then winked at her for good measure. Humor was the best way to deal with fear.

  “It’s as good a plan as any. And actually it’ll be easier than I thought. I hadn’t counted on the rain, but that will help conceal me.”

  “Not once you get close the enemy, it won’t.”

  “I’ll also use lòhrengai to make Aranloth’s staff and my cloak look black. I think I can do that.”

  “How quick you are to follow your fate.”

  “I do what I must … because I must. But after that, we shall see.”

  “So it always is with you. You do what you must, not what you want. I cannot see the future, but I can see that that will never change. Nor should it, I suppose. That much you’ve taught me, and much else besides. So, I do now what I also must do. I’ll go with you.”

  Brand shook his head. “No. It’ll be easier for one to slip into the enemy army than two. I’ll go alone.”

  Kareste held his gaze. “Would you shame me? Would you make me less than you? You gave up much for me, risked everything on my behalf, and now I do so for you. That also is as it must be. Don’t demean my choice by arguing with me. Have I not the right to risk all to help you, as you risked all to help me?”

  He was going to argue. He was going to find a way to talk her out of it, but he looked back into her eyes and felt the truth of her words. She would not be swayed, and he would only diminish her choice if he tried to.

  A long while he looked at her, and a long while she stared back at him. Eventually, he bowed his head slightly, reached out to her and gave her a tight hug.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t like it, but you’re right, and I’m proud of you. Nevertheless, I won’t forgive myself if you get hurt.”

  The Halathrin watched without speaking, but there was a strange look in their eyes.

  Harly eventually approached. When she spoke, her voice was very quiet.

  “We also will go with you.” She held up the palm of her hand to stop Brand from talking. “We do this for you. But we do it for ourselves and our kind also. Most of all, we do it for Halath, he who died for our people. We understand what you now try to do, for everything you do is for others, even as Halath did. We will follow his example.”

  He looked at her and slowly shook his head. “Harly, I can’t disguise you. You’re too fair, too bright, too beautiful to enter the enemy host unobserved. I don’t have the skill to change everybody’s appearance.”

  The Halathrin girl smiled at him. “If you have half the skill with lòhrengai that you have at flattery, you could do it with ease. But it doesn’t matter. This is a thing I can do for my band, albeit in my own way.”

  Brand did not argue. He needed these people just as he needed Kareste. At the same time, he did not want anyone to go but himself. Yet, at the end of the day, he had no right to try to deny them the opportunity to do what they felt in their hearts that they had to do. No more right than they had to deny him.

  After a few more moments they formed a column. Brand was at their head, Kareste at the rear and the Halathrin between. They had to leave the horses where they were, and their packs also. But Brand took the diamond that Gilhain had given him. He was not about to leave that behind. Then, solemnly, they left the concealing fringe of trees and marched down the rain-slicked slope toward the enemy camp.

  25. The Light Grows Brighter

  Aranloth spoke, and his voice carried all over the Cardurleth.

  “Take heart!” he commanded. “These are the bodies of those who once were our comrades, but their spirit is gone. Sorcery uses them now, raises them up, puts their feet in the stirrups and makes the horses pace. Remember your brothers for who they were, and know that these are no longer they.”

  The riders charged. Fire leaped and darted beneath the cold hooves of dead horses. A haze of smoke gathered, and it rose into the air, and the riders rode upon it, angling up into the very air themselves, climbing upon dark sorcery toward the top of the rampart.

  The stink of burning flesh was everywhere. The stench of opened entrails accompanied it. The eyes of the enemy, who once were comrades, burned and sizzled in their sockets, staring without emotion or pain, staring inhumanely, staring as the dead horses galloped.

  The defenders fired arrows. They hurled spears and javelins. These implements of war stuck in the riders, but the enemy rose higher, rode closer, came on without any interruption. The dead were already dead. Neither death nor pain nor the tactics of battle concerned them.

  The horses snorted flame. The riders neared. The skin of their faces peeled away to reveal the haggard grin of death, and flames curled around the white teeth protruding from bony jaws.

  Blood spurted from their wounds, falling down, boiling and sizzling like a ghastly rain on the barren earth below. And then, as the riders approached, it splattered on the stone of the rampart.

  Men fled their stations. Suddenly, loud and horrible, was the sound of iron-shod hooves on stone. The smell of corruption was overpowering.

  At that moment the lòhrens finally acted, for this was an attack beyond skill and courage of arms. A white light sprang forth. It was soft, silvery, reminiscent of a mid-winter moon. But however soft the light started, it swiftly grew and encompassed the riders even as they reached the Cardurleth.

  On the rides came, unstoppably. Yet the lòhrengai did not seek to block them, to oppose elùgai with its own might. Instead, it took the force thrown against the city and transformed it. The riders rode, but they continued their upward ascent, being just barley deflected from their destination.

  Up they rode. Higher and higher. Up and over the battlement and then above the city beyond. The silvery light grew brighter. And for all the horror unleashed there was now a sense of peace, for the light bathed everything as though the very moon itself hung pregnant with argent beauty in the sky.

  The light was no ordinary light. Peace came with it, release and ease of spirit. And hope. Hope most definitely, Gilhain felt. It was unexpected, unlooked for, more powerful than any darkness.

  Somewhere far below in the city a bell tolled. And as though that were a signal the light became suddenly blindingly bright. Gilhain cast his eyes downward, and saw at the edge of his vision, or beyond the vision of normal sight, a fleeting glance, faint and shimmery as though from a great distance, of green grasslands and a silver river winding through them.

  Gilhain thought of the origin of the Black Corps, of the refugees to the city and from the land whence they had come.

  Even as he thought of their homeland, the riders now high above gave a shiver in their saddles as they wheeled once more in precision, and then, banking away to the left like a flight of white doves, they disappeared. And the silvery light with them.

  Gilhain let out a long breath. They were gone. The light was gone. But a lingering sense of peace remained for a while, but that too, with each beat of his heart, began to fade.

  It was dark again. Almost night-dark. Water ran as a sheet over the stone, for at some time that he did not quite realize it had begun to rain in a mighty downpour. Men rushed back to the front of the battlement.

  But the enemy host below, driven now by powers beyond recall, swarmed as a dark wave and crashed upon the wall.

  26. The Storm Breaks

  The nearer they approached, the better Brand saw the unstinting attack of the enemy on Cardurleth. His heart swelled with pride; not just of Gilhain and Aranloth, not just of the Durlin, but also of the everyday soldiers who had defended the city since even before he had left on his quest. They had endured. They had borne attack after attack, suffered horrors that could not be described. And still they stood, awaiting some final hope, hope that for all they knew would never come. But still they endured.

  He was proud of them. And he felt a great love of the city wash over him. It was always thus, he knew. The greater the danger the more something, or someone, was appreciated. But cities fell even as did people, and he knew in his heart that no
thing was permanent. The history of Alithoras taught him that, and his own life had brought home the message even more strongly.

  Cardoroth had endured. But nothing lasted forever, not even great courage, and soon, very soon now, the end must come. The city teetered on the edge of fate, and the next few hours would send it into oblivion or light it as a beacon of hope for the whole land.

  The small band made their way through the rain, which grew even heavier. Brand reached out with his thought. He drew the downpour about himself and his companions. It whipped and lashed at them, and thereby helped to obscure them from the army they approached.

  He felt power, and he felt the lòhrengai that was in him pulse through Aranloth’s staff. It was there because he made it so, because he had chosen to wake it, and very gently the staff began to glow. As it did so, he brought his mind to bear, concentrated on the gloom that was about him, and the flicker of silver light turned darker, transformed slowly and surely to black.

  Brand thought about what he had done. He had not changed the color of the staff, but merely the light that sprang from it. It was a subterfuge, rather than a real change. He knew, instinctively, as he knew so many other things about lòhrengai, that to make real change, or to create something from nothing, was the hardest thing of all. To take something that already existed, and to transform it, was much easier. But still not easy, for doing such things taxed the mind just as physical effort taxed the body.

  The gloom of the dark day, and the rain and the scudding clouds above were all around him. He had used that subdued light, that atmosphere, to bring forth darkness of his own, but he did not stop with the staff. He did the same for his clothes, making them appear black, creating a shadow about himself to make it seem that he wore an elùgroth’s cloak.

  All the while he heard a soft chanting behind him. The words were in the Halathrin tongue, but they were harsh and guttural and he did not know their meaning, though they seemed tantalizingly familiar.

  He turned and looked at the Halathrin. Their once beautiful forms were become grotesque. Fangs sprang from their gray-lipped mouths. Their skin had become gray-green even as that of the elugs. Their limbs were now long and ungainly, and the hair on their heads, spilling from beneath now-tarnished helms, was lank. They wore also the leather jerkins of elugs, the cheap armor stained by blood and grime.

  The one at their front leered at him evilly, and with a shock he realized it was Harly. A shiver ran down his spine, and she laughed at him, showing wicked fangs and a lolling red tongue. He suppressed his revulsion and winked at her, which made her laugh all the louder.

  He turned to the front again, leader of this band of savages, and pulled about him a sense of menace and power.

  Soon, they came to a picket line of miserable elugs with their cloaks wrapped tightly about them and their heads bent low to keep their eyes out of the rain.

  Brand did not hesitate. To try to hide, to try to slip through was death. He walked brazenly at them. The elugs looked up at him, and he stared back, and he allowed his hatred of Khamdar, his hatred of the enemy to fill his eyes. He imagined crushing his foes, sweeping them into oblivion with steel and lòhrengai. The elugs saw the look in his eyes, the malice-laden glance of an elùgroth, and backed away.

  A path opened, and they went through the gap. And then, within a hundred paces they were within the enemy host itself. Elugs milled all around them. At times, there were Lethrin. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he nearly bumped into a man of the Camar race.

  Brand hid his shock, for shocked he was. But then he pieced it together. Hvargil must be here somewhere. And that made him wonder what strange things had happened in his absence. For even as much had happened to him, clearly much had happened here also.

  He headed toward the center of the host. There they would find the elùgroths. He had no need to try to track them down by guesswork, for he heard sorcerous chanting ahead, and then the voices of hundreds of elugs join in. Some dark elùgai was being worked, and Brand hastened. Already the wall was in danger of falling from the great attack hurled against it, and this new stroke, whatever it was, could mean the end.

  He looked up, but could no longer see the bulk of the Cardurleth, only the top of it dimly through the obscuring rain.

  The clouds, thick banks of black and deep-sea blue that piled one upon another, roiled ominously. A storm was about to break, and Cardoroth was at its center. There was a boom of thunder, and it was not sorcery. Nature was about to unleash its fury, uncaring of man or elugs, peace or battle. And about the edges of the storm jagged shafts of lightning flashed and leaped, spearing toward the earth as though the sky made war upon the earth.

  Ahead, Brand finally saw the elùgroths. Soldiers cowered motionless about them, crouching low to try to shelter themselves. Brand and his small group were all that moved, all that dared to move when it seemed that the fury of the sky would break the world apart.

  On Brand strode. On his band came behind him. None stood in their way, for all scattered at his approach and he felt the fear that elùgroths generated among those they led. It sickened him, but the power of it fueled his pride also. For the first time he knew what every lòhren had felt before him: temptation. And he knew he must always be on his guard. Power was a lure, a trap for the unwary, a golden path that led to blackness. Better now did he understand what Kareste had gone through.

  On he walked, and fear stabbed at his heart like the lightning that seared the ground. Here was Khamdar, and he was not alone. His brethren were with him, and a horde of elugs and dark foes at the sorcerer’s beck and call.

  Brand slowed. His heart turned to ice, and he knew at this moment that death was likely, nearly certain, and that life and hope were as distant from him as clear skies and bright sunlight.

  He faltered, and he sensed the fear of those behind him like a wave. This was madness. This was suicide. This was stupidity. Maybe, just maybe, they could yet turn around and leave the host even as they had entered it.

  A buffet of cold wind slapped him in the face, but he did not feel it. His mind raced, but as it did so he thought of all those who had died by Khamdar’s hand. And how many defenders of Cardoroth had fallen? And what if the city succumbed? Perhaps, just perhaps, he could prevent that, or at the least hinder the enemy. If he died, it might be better than living with the guilt of not trying to protect those he loved. Not just Gilhain and the Durlin, not just Aranloth. But the people of Cardoroth, the women and children who might yet see the sun shine again, even if he would not.

  Brand made his choice and strode forward again. Like a wave, the others followed in his wake, drawn forward by the strength of his will. They all went now to their deaths, but they went with one purpose, and they went as brothers and sisters to meet their fate.

  They saw the elùgroths more clearly. Lightning flared and crashed all around them. In its flickering light, the dark forms of the sorcerers were clear. They sat in a wedge, their wych-wood staffs held in their laps, their voices rising in a chant of dark magic, of magic that one way or another would be hurled at the city they strove to destroy.

  And beyond, illuminated by the same fitful light, was the Cardurleth. The enemy swarmed against it, engulfed it as a dark tide. How could the defenders hold? Yet hold they did.

  Brand felt something smash against his arm. And then something else struck his shoulder. It was hail, and it felt as though the very sky began to hammer the earth and all who stood upon it.

  The elug host wailed. The massive Lethrin wrapped their arms about their heads. Brand strode on, and the elùgroths kept chanting.

  The hail grew much larger and fell in a heavy blanket. As swiftly as it started it faltered, and then, just as swiftly again, it fell once more. This time the hail-stones were even larger, and they fell so thick that the ground was become white and the noise of their battering was a roar in Brand’s ears.

  But on he strode, and his band followed. They were near the elùgroths now, but they were also near the
Lethrin who stood adjacent as an honor guard. And the Lethrin looked and watched, their heads coming up despite the hail, and their hands reaching down for weapons.

  At the very end, Brand had been discovered. To fool elugs was one thing, but the Lethrin who guarded the sorcerers was another. They knew better than the rest of the army who their masters were, and what they looked like.

  Brand stared at them, hatred and power in his eyes, emulating the elùgroths. But the Lethrin could not be deceived. They were about to sound an alarm, but the Halathrin were already acting. Their bright swords glittered amid the gloom, flashing like little streaks of lightening.

  Brand and Kareste raced toward the elùgroths. There were only six left, for evidently they had not had things all their own way during the siege. But it was still a fight of three to one, and Brand did not like those odds.

  They had not reached them when the elùgroth at the head of the wedge looked back, alerted by the sudden noise and mayhem behind him. It was Khamdar, and even as he looked Brand saw swift recognition in the other’s eyes.

  Khamdar cried out in a tongue that Brand did not understand, but the rest of the elùgroths obviously did. They lurched to their feet, their chanting forgotten, and hatred burning like fire in their dark eyes.

  27. Burn!

  The elùgroths spread out. Khamdar was on their right, and it was toward him that Brand looked. Kill the leader, and the followers would flail about like a headless snake.

  Khamdar, for all that he was taken by surprise, acted with speed and determination. Crimson fire spurted from his staff. The sorcerous flame flashed through the air. Rain sizzled. Steam billowed upward. But Brand was ready, and he held Aranloth’s staff before him, and his drawn Halathrin blade also.

  The attack struck, and Brand took that power, felt the skill and strength that lay behind it, and managed to deflect it upward until it pierced the dark clouds above.