Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3)

by Robert Ryan

  “He’s a prisoner then?”

  The bard shook his head. He looked grim. “No. Two days ago, the Witch-queen killed him.”

  They were simple words, and Lanrik had prepared himself to hear them, yet they still shook him. He had trouble thinking clearly. For a moment, memories flooded his mind. He had spent so much time with the Lindrath. They were good times, too. Training, walking across Galenthern, practicing sword skills, but most of all just talking. Lanrik absorbed his words, always eager to hear any stories, and there were plenty of them. He modelled himself on the older man’s behavior, for he was not just the leader of the Raithlin, but a kind and generous man, swift to help a new recruit, slow to rebuke them. He was everything that Lanrik ever wanted to be. It was hard to believe that he would never hear his voice, or see his sudden smile again.

  “Are you sure?” he said to the bard after a while. “Maybe that’s just another rumor.”

  Bragga Mor looked at him through tired eyes. “The Witch-queen herself verified it.” He hesitated, and then went on. “She wanted the city to know that he was dead. She made it known that he was tortured, and that she had learned from him the names of those who opposed her before he was executed. As proof of her words, she chained his body to the palace gate. It would be a lesson, she proclaimed, of what it means to disobey her.”

  It was a callous deed, and Lanrik grew angry at the savagery of it.

  “Has no one taken the body down?”

  “The queen forbade it. There are Royal Guards nearby, and she promised that anybody who tried to remove him would die a similar death. He must hang there, she decreed, until nothing is left but bones and the memory of what happens to those who oppose her.”

  Lanrik rested his head in his hands, and Erlissa put an arm around him. The bard fell silent and watched, for there was nothing more to say.

  It was the worst possible news to Lanrik, even if he was expecting it. He tried to block his feelings. They would do neither he nor the Lindrath any good now. Instead, he concentrated on what must be done to help the city. He had to learn more about Ebona, and the Royal Guards. For instance, why did she feel the need to make such an obvious example of the Lindrath? Was it because some still opposed her? If so, it would be his job to find them. Who were they? Where were they? And likewise, how many Royal Guards were there, and would they all fight for her?

  His mind raced with ideas, but grief could not be denied, and it washed over him in ever-bigger waves. He could not hold it at bay. He lowered his head to the table and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “That’s an end to it,” Bragga Mor said gently to Erlissa. “The Lindrath was a good friend to me, and I don’t doubt that one day we’ll be free of the Witch-queen, but that time is long away.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Erlissa answered. “There are those who oppose her, the lòhrens among them.”

  Bragga Mor grunted. “They’ve offered no help so far.”

  “Have they not? Why do you think we’re here?”

  The bard was silent for a moment as he considered that.

  “Well, perhaps hope is higher than I thought. But it’ll take more than a Raithlin and a young girl to save the city.”

  “True, and yet it’s a start. Also, this girl has faced Ebona before. And survived. Keep in mind as well that she was beaten in Conhain’s time. She learned fear then, and we’ll teach it to her again.”

  Bragga Mor looked her over. At length, he grinned.

  “Well, you’re tougher than you look. Maybe you’re right. I hope that you are. But this much I know – the people are beaten and subdued now. It’ll take something special to rouse them. Conhain was one of a kind.”

  Lanrik roused himself. “You’re right,” he said. He wiped tears from his face. “And there’ll never be another like him. But his deeds are part of each of us. We remember his courage, his loyalty, and most of all, we remember his self-sacrifice. And when the time comes, Ebona will find that there are thousands of Conhains in this city, because there’s a little of him in all of us.”

  Bragga Mor sat back. “Well, I wish you luck. I wish us all luck. There’s truth to what you say. But that time, if and when it comes, isn’t today. Today, a philosopher died, and no one helped him. Least of all me. Panic runs through the streets. Today is a day to keep your head down and to stay out of trouble. Tomorrow… we shall see.”

  The bard stood. He shook both their hands.

  “Good luck,” he said. “I don’t know what you plan to do, and it’s best that way. Who knows? One day I might sing lays about you.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps elegies.”

  He turned and left.

  When he was gone, Lanrik glanced at Erlissa. “So, that was Bragga Mor. I’ve always wanted to meet him. A pity that he only had bad news.”

  “I get the feeling that good news is rare in the city these days. But we have to carry on. So, what’s next?”

  Lanrik looked at her steadily. He had already made up his mind.

  “We have to see the body. Is it really the Lindrath, or is it just another rumor?”

  Erlissa met his gaze without surprise. “I thought that’s what you’d say. I really don’t think it’s a rumor, though. Bragga Mor was certain.”

  “So he was, and I believe him, but we have to check before we can move ahead with anything else. Besides, we need to see the palace too. I want find out how well guarded it is.”

  They went to leave the shop. The waitress bowed to them, and Lanrik tried to pay, but she refused.

  “It’s already on Bragga Mor’s account,” she explained.

  They left, and stepped back onto the Hainer Lon. It was crowded, and there were still signs of unrest, but the panic after the killing had lessened.

  They moved quickly down the street. Noon had come and gone, but the city remained busy. It was a good time to go to the palace, for the crowds would offer them concealment. After verifying the Lindrath’s death, they would then have to find a place to spend the night, and to work out what to do next.

  They retraced their steps, passing the Merenloth again. Royal Guards stood at its entrance, and Lanrik and Erlissa walked on the other side of the street in order to keep the crowd between them and any watchful eyes.

  The guards did not pay them any interest. They seemed intent only on ensuring that nobody went inside. Lanrik wondered if the queen would close it permanently. That would serve little real purpose, but it would reinforce that she was in control, and that she did not tolerate dissent.

  They moved ahead, passing through an area that they had not seen this morning. Earlier, they had skirted the central part of the city. Now, they headed right into it.

  There were dangers in what they were doing, but truly nowhere was safe for them. And they must confirm that the Lindrath was dead. Alive, he could be pivotal in trying to defeat Ebona, serving as a rally point for the people. He was famed. And loved. Not least, Lanrik thought, by himself.

  The street felt somehow unfamiliar to him, even though he had been this way countless times. Esgallien was his home, but there was little joy here now. The people he loved were dead, and nothing was left of happiness but memories.

  He wondered, when all of this was over one day, if he could ever face living here again. He put the thought aside. It was something to consider in the future, if he had one. For the present, he was the new Lindrath, and even if his Raithlin served all of Alithoras, Esgallien was still a part of it.

  They entered the inner district. Erlissa walked quietly beside him. Her presence was a comfort, and no words were needed. She knew what he was going through, and she was there for him.

  They trod footpaths tiled with colored mosaics. All about them were signs of wealth. The buildings rose high, and their bricks were faced with marble. Many had peaked and decorative roofs, or even towers, and bright flags fluttered from high poles signaling the names of famous people or the houses of the nobility.

  On their right, they passed the Haranast. It was still open, and people
crowded it. A dull roar washed into the street. A race was going on, and somewhere far out of sight, down on the bottom of the sand-covered arena, horses were galloping. People cheered them on. He pictured it easily, for he had been a member of that crowd many times himself. Would they be cheering if they knew what had happened earlier in the Merenloth?

  The Merenloth was a different kind of place, though. It was built for singing, speaking and debates. The Haranast was somewhere that people had fun, and drank. He doubted the Witch-queen would close it, as she seemed to have done with the Merenloth. That would only give the population free time to think on all the wrongs that she had perpetuated, and perhaps to act on their grievances. She would rather distract them.

  Soon they came to the Karlenthern. It was quiet today. He remembered it as the place where Lathmai had won the archery tournament in the Spring Games. That was a good memory, but he could not think of it without picturing how she had died. Truly, Esgallien was full of memories, and the good and the bad had all become one.

  “We’re getting close,” Erlissa said.

  It was true. The palace was nearby, situated on the edge of Conhain Court. The closer he got, the less he wanted to continue. He did not wish to see the Lindrath. Not dead, anyway. It would be another memory to haunt him. He had seen too many dead people already – those he loved, and those that circumstance had forced him to kill. He did not want to see more, but he knew he must.

  There would be Royal Guards ahead. This was near their barracks, for their primary purpose was to protect the kings and queens of Esgallien and the palace. It would be dangerous soon, and he wished that he could get rid of Erlissa’s staff. But he could not, and in truth, many people in Esgallien carried one. Bodyguards were common, and the staff was a weapon of choice for many who could not afford swords.

  “Conhain Court,” he said to Erlissa. “Are you ready?”

  She looked ahead. “Let’s get this over with.”

  They moved ahead. The Hainer Lon merged into the great square. It would start again on the other side, but here, in the heart of the city, there was no road, only a mass of people.

  There was something about the court that always inspired Lanrik. It was huge, colonnaded on all sides, and scattered throughout it were bronze statues of Esgallien’s kings and queens: some mounted for hunting or war. Some with their crowns and royal regalia. Some that were serious. Some that beamed cheerfully. But all of them were part of the deep history of the city. None more so than Conhain. He sat astride his great warhorse, suffering and determination etched by the sculptor into his every feature. In one hand, he held high the famous Red Cloth of Victory.

  Through gaps in the crowd Lanrik saw into the center of the square and glimpsed the large platform situated there. It was a place of ceremony, but also where he had fought Mecklar in the sword tournament of the Spring Games. Yet another memory that bubbled to the surface. At least, there was not going to be a fight today. Guards or no guards, it should be easy enough to see the Lindrath’s body, to pay some last respects, and to get out of there. Tomorrow was another day, and that would be soon enough to work out what to do next.

  They moved through the crowds. The court seemed as busy as ever, and though everything appeared as it normally did: the markets, the seething mass of pedestrians, the noise and carrying on, he did notice that there were more armed people than usual. He should have realized this earlier. It was common enough for someone to carry a sword, and many carried staffs, but it seemed now that every second person bore a weapon. And they were watchful, too.

  “It seems so normal,” Erlissa said. “And yet, there’s a look to the people. They’re scared. I get the feeling that they could break into a panic at any moment, and for little reason.”

  What she said was true. These people would feel safer here than elsewhere, because there was protection in numbers, and yet even here they did not feel secure. It showed in all the weapons, their furtive glances, and the distance they kept from one another. Most of all, it showed in the lack of playing children. Normally, the court would be full of them, but he saw only adults now.

  Erlissa nudged him and pointed. “I wonder what she would think of all this?”

  They had come to Rhodmai’s statue. Here, she was crowned and wore all her royal regalia, and yet she had the same cheery face as shown on the paintings in the Bridge Inn.

  “It wouldn’t have happened in her time,” he said.

  Erlissa nodded. “No. Lòhrens were welcome. And kind old lady that she was, she would have made sure that Ebona never entered the city, never gained a following, and never had a chance to influence anything, let alone rule. Murhain has a lot to answer for.”

  So he did, but Lanrik suddenly wondered if even the king now feared for his life. Had he realized his mistake? Could he perhaps even be counted an ally in defeating Ebona? He did not think so, but it was something to consider.

  He remembered Aranloth’s prophecy that the king would come to a bad end. Well, that was likely enough. Certainly, when the queen was defeated, he would be in trouble. The people would no longer tolerate him after what he had allowed to happen.

  But Murhain did not have any heirs. Who would be crowned in his place? All that was left of the royal family were distant relatives. None of them really had a stronger claim than the others, and none were particularly competent. The true blood of Conhain’s line had grown thin, and none now living matched their ancestor. But a strong leader would be needed when Ebona was gone, for the realm was always at risk from its enemies in the south. An elug army, led by a new shazrahad, could come at any time.

  They moved across the square. At its end, on the right hand side, was a separate colonnade that led to the front of the palace. They neared it now, and he walked ever more slowly.

  “Careful,” he said. “From here on there could be guards.”

  They walked down the colonnade. There were less people here. Ahead, the palace rose up, a stately building, surrounded by its own court, grassed areas and gardens. But all that was fenced off. Metal pickets, black, sharp-spiked and tall, surrounded it.

  At the end of the colonnade stood a massive wrought-iron gate. He saw no guards, which was strange. Normally, there were two here. But the gate was closed, as was usual, for it served only as a ceremonial entry into the palace grounds during times of pomp and celebration. A smaller gate, far to the right, was the usual entry for day-to-day use.

  They approached, and he saw the body. As Bragga Mor had said, it was chained to the gate. There were only a few people here, and they hurried past without looking.

  They walked ahead. Lanrik’s heart began to thud. He did not want to do this, for he already had memories of Lathmai that he could not erase, though the images of her burnt and broken body haunted his sleep less often than they used to. If he saw the tortured body of the Lindrath, it would stay with him just as long.

  Erlissa held his hand, and they proceeded. There was no one near them now. He smelled a hint of decay. Soon, a stench would cloy the air and reach even into Conhain Court. His gaze traced rivulets of blood along several of the gate-bars, now caked dry. A black pool, semi-congealed and swarming with flies, marred the cobbles.

  He made himself look up. The Lindrath hung there, chained roughly by his neck to the top of the gate. His arms and body drooped motionless. The Raithlin cloak, worn with pride throughout his life, was become a tattered and dirty rag, rent in a dozen places by knife or sword, soiled by dirt, blood and vomit.

  A slow rage welled up inside Lanrik. It rose, like a living thing, and it swirled with feelings of hatred, retribution and a yearning to destroy those who had done this. He pushed it down, for he sensed his self-control slipping, and that would not serve the Lindrath, or Esgallien. But he would not forget.

  “He fought them,” Erlissa said unexpectedly. “See the wounds to his arms and legs? They’re not torture marks. They were caused by fending off attacks. And see his knuckles? They’re red. He landed several blows at least, b
efore they took him.”

  It was something. The Lindrath would have defied them as long as possible. But no man could endure the pain that he must have without breaking. His eyes were gone, plucked from their sockets. His face bashed. Black bruises blossomed over most of his skin like a creeping disease. And fire, or red-hot bars, had seared him. The skin of his face, peeled and blackened, still oozed blood from sickly blisters.

  Lanrik closed his eyes. It did not help. Instead of the Lindrath, he saw Lathmai. She too had suffered the unendurable. He felt the rage inside him rise again.

  “Is that his seal?” Erlissa asked.

  Lanrik did not answer. He looked at the Lindrath’s ring. He had seen it often enough. It was a band of gold, embossed with the Raithlin motif of a trotting fox looking back over its shoulder. They had left him that, and no thief had dared steal it. Strange that it remained, though. He supposed Ebona would want people to see it, to know that it was the Lindrath. And yet, the body had been here for two days. There were no guards, at least at the moment. Some desperate thief would have removed it by now, unless Ebona kept a closer watch than was apparent. He felt suddenly uneasy, and looked around.

  There was no one near except for passersby, moving through with their eyes down. And yet, there were shops not that far away. Guards could be stationed inside them, and he would not see them.

  “Are you satisfied that it’s the Lindrath?” Erlissa asked.

  “It looks like him. The hair is right, and his build. And it is his seal, too. But his face is so badly beaten. It has to be him, and yet…”

  “And yet?”

  “Something isn’t right.”

  Erlissa did not answer. She let him continue to think, and his gaze scrutinized the corpse. It made him feel sick. The face was unrecognizable, so he concentrated on other parts of the body. The hands seemed right. They were long fingered and tanned from the sun. The arms were lean but well muscled from years of sword craft. His gaze strayed to the ring again. It was the final confirmation that it was the Lindrath, the best that he would ever have, but something disturbed him. Badly.