by Robert Ryan
COURAGE OF THE CONQUERED
BOOK THREE OF THE RAITHLINDRATH SERIES
Robert Ryan
Copyright © 2014 Robert J. Ryan
All Rights Reserved. The right of Robert J. Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover Design by www.ebooklaunch.com
Trotting Fox Press
1. Old Enemies
Emotions washed over Lanrik. They tightened his chest, constricted his throat and brought a film of tears to his eyes. Yet they were of a kind so peculiar, so seldom felt, that he could not name them.
He remained perfectly still, but his gaze leaped like a living thing over the miles between the hill on which he stood and the city below.
Esgallien. His old home. The place that would always be home no matter where he roamed, even if he lived as long as Aranloth.
Not that he would. He was not sure that he wanted to, either. For what he felt now must only be a shadow, a token, of what such a life entailed.
The city gleamed like a raindrop caught by the midsummer sun and turned by its bright rays into a brilliant diamond. But the city, just like the raindrop, was ephemeral. Nothing lasted forever, and he knew with sudden insight that the forces of chaos gnawed at the great just the same as the small.
The splendor of the city held his gaze, but he was not unaware of the flocks of crows that hopped and fluttered over refuse, or of the sluggish layer of smoke, spewed from countless fireplaces, that hovered cloudlike above the sprawl of buildings. It was just that his heart was drawn to what was good. And there was much of that in an ancient city founded by a hardworking and talented people.
Esgallien had not changed since he had left. At least, not from this distance. Yet for all its grandeur, its many bridges, its tall buildings, its green parks and massive squares, it seemed smaller to him. And even more precious.
His old self, a Raithlin in service to the king, had enjoyed living there. Now, he was exiled. The city seemed peaceful, and yet every tale coming from it told a story of woe and turmoil. It seemed strong, even invincible, but it had never been at greater risk from its enemies, which were many.
He sighed. The city’s towers pierced the air, their lofty roofs glinted in the sun, but there were shadow-filled alleys below. The palace gleamed, noble and fair, and yet he knew what greed and corruption dwelt inside. The Red Cloth of Victory fluttered from its tallest flagpole. It represented the heart of Esgallien society: courage, determination, loyalty. It was a reminder of Conhain’s sacrifice on founding the city. But those who ruled beneath it dishonored his name.
His old self would not have seen these things. But he did. The city had not changed – he had.
A breeze tugged at the banner, and it attracted his attention. It was not the original cloth, of course. It was merely a flag, dyed a bright shade of crimson, not the one soaked with Conhain’s blood. No one knew where that was. It must have turned to dust centuries ago. So much of the past was gone, but the spirit of the city founders was still alive. Ebona could not break it in a matter of months, or even years. Of that, he was certain.
Nevertheless, Conhain’s famous quote ran through his mind. Nothing lasts forever. Not men, or chiefs … nor even cities.
Lanrik had seen enough, lived long enough now, to feel the truth of that statement. And to fear that it might come to pass during his lifetime.
Aranloth’s horse swished its tail and stamped a hoof. The sudden movement drew Lanrik out of his pensive mood.
“They’re down there somewhere,” he said. “The Raithlin and the Lindrath. Alive or dead. And who knows what they’ve endured since Ebona entered the city.”
Aranloth closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked away from Esgallien.
“She’ll have persecuted them. There was more than one report that she was trying to hunt them all down. I believed it. But your old friends are resourceful. She’ll not have had everything her own way.”
“Lots of rumors reached Lòrenta,” Lanrik said. “Most of them contradicted each other. I can’t help wonder if even one of the Raithlin is left though, still less the Lindrath. I’ve lost count of the supposed instances of imprisonment and escape. But torture and death are more likely.”
Erlissa placed an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll find out what happened, Lan.”
He leaned in toward her. “If he’s alive, we might even be able to help,” he said. “But one way or another, I intend to discover the truth.”
He looked over at the Lòhren. “Are you sure you can’t come with us?”
“I would if I could,” Aranloth answered. “But my own task is as necessary as yours, albeit in a different way.” He patted his robes where he kept a pouch filled with the seeds the Guardian had given him. “I promised Carnona I’d plant these in the Graèglin Dennath. It was our bargain when I needed her help, and I must keep to that promise, even if that help is no longer needed.”
Lanrik wondered if that was all there was to it. It seemed to him that the lòhren had other business. He always kept secrets, even if he did so for a good purpose, and Lanrik was getting better at telling when that was so.
“Then we’ll just have to get by without you,” he said with resignation.
Aranloth held his gaze. “You’ll scrape through, I think.” He glanced at Erlissa. “But the two of you must stick together. Whatever you do, don’t get separated. You have no friends down there except yourselves. I’ve been in places like this before. Fear, spite and malice thrive. You cannot trust anybody, no matter how much you want to. And remember, try not to interfere in anything. That’ll only draw attention to you. What we need is reliable information about what’s happening. Only then can we decide how to deal with Ebona.” He paused for a moment, seeking to draw some last bit of advice from the well of his experience. “Stay out of harm’s way. Listen and learn. Keep your mouths closed and your ears open – that’s the way to get through this.”
Aranloth held out his hand, and Lanrik shook it firmly. When he let go, Erlissa reached up to give the lòhren a hug. Aranloth seemed taken aback by that. He looked for a moment like he wished to stay, but then he nudged his horse forward and turned to the right. His path was around the city, and then on toward Esgallien Ford.
“Remember,” he said over his shoulder. “Tonight is a full moon. We’ll meet at the next one on the tor.”
Erlissa ignored his comment. “Be careful,” she said.
Lanrik had no wish to part from the lòhren, or to see him go into danger by himself. Still less did he want to go to the tor again. Lathmai’s suffering gave him nightmares even now, and seeing the place where she died would only freshen bad memories. On the other hand, her grave should not remain untended, and the tor was the logical place to meet. It was easily located, and it offered a clear view for many leagues. With all the enemies they had, that was a necessary precaution.
Neither he nor Erlissa spoke while the lòhren guided his mount between rocks and shrubs along a faint trail into the wilderness. Lanrik was not sure about her, but he felt his stomach sink. Aranloth had helped them through many dangerous times, and now he had to leave when they faced a new one. They should be safe from the witch if they followed his advice, but even carefully crafted plans faltered in the face of the unexpected.
When the lòhren disappeared into a thicket of scrubby trees, they looked once more at the city.
“Time for us to go as well,” Erlissa said.
By way of answer Lanrik started down the road. They walked in a comfortable silence. And if the lòhren was not with th
em, they had each other.
Lanrik fingered the silver ring that he wore. Aranloth had given it to him, and Erlissa wore one just like it. It was a ward against Ebona. It would offer no help if the witch attacked them, but it would conceal them from her probing mind should she have cause to seek them out. Not that she had any reason to suspect their entry into the city, but it did not pay to underestimate her, or those in her service. She hated the two of them. They had each thwarted and disdained her, and her reserves of forgiveness were low, while her capacity for revenge was high. After all, she had held a grudge against Aranloth for a thousand years.
He glanced over at Erlissa. For a moment he studied her, and then he smiled.
She frowned. “What’s so amusing?”
“You look different … as a blonde.”
She ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t think it suits me. I only hope all the trouble that Aranloth took to dye it was worthwhile.”
Lanrik grew serious. “I think it was,” he said. “The Royal Guard are sure to have our descriptions, and Ebona will also have informants throughout the city. If I’m having trouble recognizing you, I don’t see how they could.”
She returned his appraising glance. “You look different too, you know.”
He grew uncomfortable. “I look stupid with black hair instead of brown.”
“No,” she said. “It suits you, but that’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“You look really odd without your Raithlin clothes.”
He shrugged. “If I look odd, I assure you, I feel even stranger.”
He had swapped his normal garb, clothes that would have ensured his arrest on sight, for a plain pair of tan trousers and a wine-red tunic so faded by wear as to be near colorless. But he had not chosen the clothes without due thought. Not only would their drabness allow him to appear unremarkable in a crowd, but if he had to hide, those colors would blend well with bricks and tiles.
To further their disguises Lanrik carried Erlissa’s walnut staff. He also wore a sword. Although it was a Raithlin blade, etched with the trotting fox motif, he refused to leave it behind. It was an act of defiance against Ebona and King Murhain. Futile, perhaps, but it made him feel better. Anyway, he should not have any cause to draw it, so no one would ever know. At least, he hoped so. It felt a suddenly foolish decision the closer he came to the city though.
He carried the staff lightly as he walked. It felt cool to his touch, and heavy, even for walnut. Not only did his carrying it, instead of her, reduce the chance that someone would recognize her as a lòhren, it served another important purpose. Part of his disguise was to act as a bodyguard to her pretense as a healer. Bodyguards often carried staffs and used their blades only as a last line of defense.
They walked easily but quickly down the hill. Their horses were on their way back to Lòrenta with several of the new Raithlin who had come this far, but no more, as a training exercise.
Ahead, at the base of the hill where a creek ran between steep banks, was their first stop: Bridge Inn. The bridge after which it was named spanned the banks.
While they made their way toward it, Lanrik kept a close eye on the countryside. And though the road looked exactly as it normally did: well made, turfed and slightly raised in the middle to drain water, the countryside did not.
All about him he saw indications that something was amiss. The farms were quiet, and there were no laborers in sight. The villa doors were closed, when normally they were open. If they were not open, at least some of the side doors were usually kept ajar for the ease of workers that came and went with great frequency.
The fields seemed unnaturally still, except for the few horses that he could see. There were no men hoeing weeds, mending fences or spreading manure. Most of all, he noticed that many paddocks that needed ploughing remained untilled and thick with weeds. That disturbed him most of all, for this was a prosperous area, home to the many studs that bred horses for the races in the Haranast. The problems he saw spoke of ongoing neglect and little hope for the future.
Erlissa sensed it as well. She looked about her carefully, her gaze lingering most on the closed villas. But they said nothing to each other as they walked. They kept their eyes wide open and alert, and glanced frequently toward the city beyond the inn that must lie under the same dread or burden that sucked the life out of the land.
At length, they came to the bridge. It was old, of pitted and weathered stone, built in the early days of the kingdom. For all of that, it was solid and secure. It had survived many floods, and so too had the inn beside it. That was Lanrik’s first choice of a place to gather information, for nowhere was there more news to be had than where food filled bellies and beer loosened tongues.
He remembered with fondness the many occasions that he had drunk the beer of the inn. It was at times a haunt for Raithlin. Especially in the early stages of training, for some of the most experienced instructors lived in this quarter of the city. But his training days were well in the past, and no one would likely recognize him now, even without a disguise, except another Raithlin. And if he met one of them, he would be more than happy.
He remembered the stories that he had heard here, of how Rhodmai, who had once poured beer for weary travelers as a barmaid, had become Queen of Esgallien and ruled in her own right after the king’s death. She had lived to one hundred and one, and folklore alleged that she attributed her longevity to a glass of beer every day. It was a popular inn, and he hoped that in its crowded taproom he would hear much news without even having to ask questions.
They slowed as they crossed the bridge. Below, water gurgled in the creek, but it was not as it once was. Discarded rubbish lay washed up on the banks, or had been thrown over the side of the stone rails, and the corpse of a small animal, bloated and stinking, floated down the current.
There were now several people moving about, probably travelers between villas or workers returning from the Haranast to the horse studs. Some carried sacks over their shoulder, but they all walked hurriedly, whatever their destination. With a jolt, Lanrik realized that some of them might even be refugees seeking escape from the city.
All of them kept their hoods up and their heads down. They did not speak to each other, still less to him and Erlissa who were heading toward the city. There were no friendly greetings, not even a nod or a wave as was customary on Esgallien’s open roads. And when he caught a glimpse of their faces, he saw nothing but signs of woe and fear.
“It’s worse that we thought,” Erlissa whispered to him.
He had no answer to that. He was expecting it to be bad, but a sense of dread was coming to life the closer they came to the inn, and he wondered what the rest of the city would be like when they reached it.
Instinctively, he moved closer to Erlissa. “They’re like a conquered people,” he said.
“It’s as if they’re beyond hope.”
Lanrik did not think that was the case. He felt that regardless of their appearance, under the right circumstances, they would fight back. Murhain and Ebona would not have everything their own way. Not for much longer, anyway. Once he and Erlissa discovered the truth of how things stood, Aranloth would devise a plan to defeat the witch.
They reached the inn and stood quietly for a moment before the door. It was closed, a thing that Lanrik had never seen before except in winter. And even then only on the coldest days when a wind blew from the north.
He glanced at the sign near the door. It hung neatly from a chain, but it creaked and rattled in a way that was lonesome. Bridge Inn, it declared, but the writing was small. Far larger was the portrait if Rhodmai, an old lady seated in a comfortable chair, with a mug in her hands and a twinkle in her eye. Her image was reassuring at least.
He placed a hand on the door and opened it. What he saw as it swung on rusted hinges was something so unexpected that it drained the reassurance right from him. Standing on the other side, scrutinizing him closely, were two Royal Guards. Beyo
nd, he saw several others in the same uniform. Each of them eyed him carefully.
2. A Dangerous Path
Lanrik forced a smile.
“Hello,” he said. Despite his cheery tone, his first reaction had been to raise the staff in a defensive position. He had covered it by pretending it was a kind of wave, but was not sure if that had worked.
Neither of the Royal Guards bothered to acknowledge his greeting. Instead, they looked at him coldly.
“Name and occupation,” the closer of the two said. His tone was that of a bored man doing a distasteful job.
Lanrik resisted the urge to show offense at the rudeness. Instead, he offered the story he and Erlissa had prepared.
“I’m Marik. I serve as a bodyguard.”
The soldier eyed him as though he doubted his competence for the role. “And who needs your protection?”
Lanrik gestured behind him. “Tamril is a healer.”
Erlissa stepped forward and gave a slight curtsey.
The second guard lent over a nearby table and wrote on a sheet of tattered parchment. When he was done, the two of them did not bother to say anything further but returned to their seats near a curtained window. Evidently, they kept a lookout for travelers. But Lanrik was intrigued. For whom did they watch?
What he wanted to do most of all was get out of the room. But to leave now would only draw suspicion. Instead, he ushered Erlissa through and closed the door behind him. They must go inside and stay long enough for at least one drink.
The room was near empty of customers, but there was no lack of Royal Guards. There must have been a dozen, and Lanrik doubted they were there for leisure. They were stationed here for a reason; and that must be to look for someone, and someone expected to give them trouble, or there would not be so many.
He saw a free table against the left wall and walked over to it. His boots clanked loudly on the wooden floor, for there was little conversation among the guards and the room was quiet.
