by Robert Ryan
Our duty is to serve and protect
Our honor is to fight but not hate
Our love is for all that is good in the world
Out of the void, an answer came:
Well did you serve and protect
High was your honor, low was your hate
Your love for good was a beacon of light
Lanrik knew those words. Mourners recited them at the funeral of every Raithlin.
He looked up. Conhain stared at him. Not with the eyes of a dead man, nor yet the eyes of the living, but by enchantment that transcended life and death.
The king rose on his bier. His stately robes, silken things, sown with gold thread and studded by rare gems, whispered as he moved. Silver bands gleamed on wrists and forearms. A gold torc glittered around his neck, and a mighty sword hung from his side.
Conhain paused, and then like a young man, he swung himself over the side of the marble bier and vaulted to the floor. There he stood and gazed at the three of them.
Lanrik no longer knew if Conhain was alive or dead. He did not understand if this was a preserved body, a spirit, or some phantom of his mind that rose and stood before him. But the king’s voice sounded real.
“Solemn words, and I have uttered them more than once. For I too was a Raithlin. I, who roamed the forests of the Halathrin and learned deeply of their lore. I was the first Raithlin, and the first Lindrath, and you have brought back memories that long have slept.”
The king paused. His kind but sorrow-laden eyes studied them.
“Solemn words, but few others could rouse me. But this is no Raithlin initiation ceremony, nor even a funeral.”
Lanrik swayed to his feet. The others did likewise. They stepped back. A sense of awe threatened to overcome them. And if not that, then dread, for the living had no place conversing with the dead.
Conhain did not move. “Do not fear me. I have not woken to cause harm, but to help. For assuredly, help is needed. This is the foretold hour when Ebona sits on the throne of Esgallien. It burdens me, though long I knew the day would come, and long I waited for it, and for you.”
The king’s eyes glittered in the light of Erlissa’s staff. Lanrik spoke. His voice seemed harsh and thick.
“My King? You have waited for us?”
“I waited for you.”
Lanrik did not know what to say.
“Show me your sword,” the king commanded.
Lanrik lifted up the blade that he had taken from the captain. Conhain took hold of it. He glanced at it with puzzlement, and then cast it back into the anteroom.
“A poor sword,” he said. “A poor sword indeed, and one that has drunk of the blood of innocents in service to Ebona’s lust for death. It is not yours. Have you not another?”
Lanrik thought of his knives, and was about to pull one of them, but then realized that was not what Conhain meant.
“I’ve lost my Raithlin sword. But I have another. It lies safe in the fortress of Lòrenta.”
“Describe it.”
“It’s a shazrahad blade, and I must keep it from the king. At least, so runs the prophecy.”
Conhain laughed. It was a strange sound, deep in the dark, the laughter of the dead. It was full of the joy of life and kindness.
“Prophecies are odd things,” he said. “I know it. I know much. The dead know many things.”
Lanrik looked at him. This was not a moment to speak, even if awe did not make his tongue awkward.
“Have you not wondered why the prophecy of Assurah gathers pace? Have you not wondered why the sword ever draws danger and trouble? Aranloth has.”
Lanrik shook his head. “I don’t know, My Lord.”
“Think on this, then.”
The king straightened. Tall he stood, and solemn, until he appeared as his likeness carved into the towers that guarded Esgallien’s gates.
“Long have I waited. Long have I dreamed amid the shoreless void. And I knew that moment, that one single moment amid the great dark, when first you laid hand upon the hilt of the sword. I felt prophecy waken. It stirred with life. You are no king, nor shall ever be, but you are of my line. Some of your forefathers wore Esgallien’s crown. Your blood kindles the prophecy, but does not bring it to full vigor, which is both blessing and curse.”
Lanrik stood in shock. He felt the heavy gaze of the Lindrath and Erlissa upon him. And yet what Conhain said made sense, and the dead did not lie. All of a sudden he understood Aranloth’s many frowns and his uncertainty and hesitation about the sword, so strange when otherwise he was decisive.
The king surprised him anew.
“I have a gift,” Conhain said.
Lanrik felt his heart flutter. He dare not consider what the long dead might think fit to bestow to the living. It too might be both blessing and curse. But he inclined his head and waited.
“You need a sword. A sword fit for one of my line. One day the city will fall. My sword, the sword I now give unto you, will be needed then, and in the days that follow. Take it out of the dark, take it into the light, that it may help those who most need it.”
The king drew the great blade that hung at his side. Fable told that the Halathrin forged it. It was long. It glittered in the dark. And it held power. Some force was in it, some force that preserved, for no blemish was upon it. The leather-wrapped hilt remained soft, and the blade shone with an inner light.
The king turned it in his hand. For a moment, he tested its weight, felt some stirring of memory or life, and then he handed it, hilt first, to Lanrik.
It filled the air between them, a thing of legend and power, and Lanrik hesitated.
“Take it,” the king commanded.
Lanrik took it. His hands trembled.
Conhain removed his belt and sheath, and passed them to him.
“Put it on.”
Lanrik fumbled with the belt, but Erlissa helped him. It fitted well. The sword of Conhain hung at his side.
He looked up at the tall king. “Is there no hope for Esgallien? Is it true, that nothing lasts forever? Not men, or chiefs … nor even cities?”
Conhain gazed at him. His kindly eyes filled with sorrow, and for a moment he appeared as Aranloth so often did.
“It is true.”
“How then can I fight fate, even with such a gift?”
Conhain’s gaze did not waver. “You cannot. My words were valid. But there is another truth, equally valid. Nothing lasts forever, but likewise, nothing is erased. No kind act, no brave deed, no sacrifice for love is ever expunged or made as though it never happened. Not death, or the oblivion of the ages, nor the failing memory of a race can ever take it away or make it as though it never was. Remember that. Remember that all you now know and love was born of ruin and despair in my time. Remember me. For I am your forefather, and I am proud of you.”
The king began to fade, or Lanrik’s vision to blur. Conhain stepped back to the bier and lay down. The light of Erlissa’s staff flickered and leaped. A cold wind blew.
The king lay still upon the marble slab. The Red Cloth of Victory fluttered above him. Lanrik felt the sudden weight of Conhain’s sword that hung now at his own side.
“We must go,” Erlissa whispered. “Time runs swiftly. The Witch-queen will have felt the power that seethes here. She will hasten to investigate, and we must be gone.”
Lanrik looked at the king. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He did not move.
17. In the Name of the King
Lanrik felt Erlissa tug at his arm, but it was only when the Lindrath pushed him that he began to move.
He stumbled into the antechamber, and then a few moments later into the next room. He did not see how Erlissa closed the doors behind them, but he heard them come too and saw a flash of light each time.
They reached the stairs that ascended into the park.
“Was it a dream?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Erlissa answered. “But dream or no, the sword is real.”
Lanrik put a ha
nd to its hilt. It felt reassuring to his touch.
“We can sort all that out later,” the Lindrath said. “For now, keep behind me, and walk quietly.”
The Lindrath moved up the stairs. Erlissa followed, and Lanrik trailed behind. They did not know who, if anyone, might be up in the park, and that helped clear his mind. It was time to be a Raithlin again.
They made no noise, and when they reached the entrance, the Lindrath paused. From deep in the shadows he watched and waited. Evidently, he neither saw nor sensed anything out of place, for after a while he stepped forward onto the stone floor of the monument.
It was dark. The lights of the city glimmered in the distance. Of the captain and soldiers, there was no sign. What the man would do, Lanrik could not guess. As a captain in the Royal Guard, he answered to Ebona, and yet no man would want to tell her of such a failure. He might try to disappear into the city, just as the soldiers.
The park lay below them, fields and groves of shadow where enemies might lurk, but he saw nothing that worried him.
Erlissa sealed the tomb, triggering the lòhrengai that moved and concealed the door. After a momentary flash of light, and a deep thrumming in the stone beneath their feet, they walked to the edge of the monument. The verge of the grassed slope, and the statue in the stone-lined pond, were just ahead.
“Where to?” the Lindrath asked.
“The tor,” Lanrik replied. “That’s where we’re meeting Aranloth, and where we’ll figure out how to overthrow the Witch-queen.”
The Lindrath hesitated. “I had not thought to leave the city … but if you want me, I’ll come as well.”
“Oh, we want you,” Erlissa said. “You know more of Esgallien and how things stand in it than we could have discovered in months. With you, our quest is more than successful.”
Lanrik nodded. “But getting to the tor might not be easy. I had hoped to escape the park and the ring of sentries without a fight, but if you think the Witch-queen is coming, we’ll have no time for subterfuge.”
“She’s coming,” Erlissa said with certainty.
“Then we’d better go straight to the Hainer Lon, near where we entered, for that’s the quickest route out of the city.”
It was silent as they stepped onto the grass, but the quiet did not last. Even as they began to move, out from a grove of trees rode several men.
“Royal Guards!” the Lindrath said.
But that was not all. Something shambled beside the riders. It flickered with fire amid the dark, and the grass withered and smoked beneath its steps. The charred-man had come also.
“Behind me!” shouted Erlissa.
Both Lanrik and the Lindrath ignored her. They might not command magic to fight the charred-man, but they would not allow Erlissa to take the full brunt of its assault. They spread out to either side, swords drawn.
Lanrik felt the thrill of battle course through his body, and Conhain’s blade was bright in the shadowy air.
The riders hung back. There were five of them, and Lanrik though one of them was Brinhain. It would be no surprise. But he focused his attention on the charred-man.
The creature twitched and shuddered. It seemed feverish, as though unable to contain some great emotion. Perhaps it knew that its moment had come, that it could now fulfil the purpose Ebona had burdened it with. For surely its prey could not flee. Not on foot, with riders who could surround them in the open park, and herd them back toward it.
The charred-man headed for Erlissa. She stood her ground, unmoving despite the threat, seemingly content to wait and allow it to attack.
It lurched forward. Smoke curled up from the shriveled grass. An acrid scent burned in the air. The thing slowed, came to a standstill, and observed her. What thoughts crossed its mind, Lanrik did not know. For what it waited, he could not guess. But it did not pause long. One moment it stood still, and then the next it shuddered. Flame seethed around it, and it punched forward with a blistered fist.
A bolt of yellow-red flame sizzled through the air. It streaked to Erlissa. At the last moment, she raised her staff and blue light formed a shield before her. The bolt struck it. Fire writhed and twisted over the blue surface, and then fell down to the ground like water from the side of a building.
Erlissa made no further move. What her strategy was, Lanrik could not tell. But he was done waiting. Both he and the Lindrath, whether by the same instincts or similar training, moved toward it. They each drew knives and flung them as they approached.
The blades struck the creature. It staggered back a pace, and then straightened. With some care, it plucked the knives from its flesh; one from its throat, the other its belly. It held them before it. Its hands burned with fire, and steel began to smolder. The knives glowed red, and then turned white-hot.
The charred-man flung the first blade back at the Lindrath. White fire streaked through the air. The Lindrath dived and rolled, the blade hurtling into the ground near him and sparking into a thousand fragments.
The creature turned on him, and Lanrik waited until it flung his own knife back, and then he dived. It was a close thing. He felt fiery heat as it passed through the air near him, and then he was running at his attacker, Conhain’s sword in his hand. From the corner of his eye he saw that the Lindrath did the same.
They never reached it. From behind the charred-man water tossed to and fro in the pond that held Conhain’s statue. It coursed upward, infused with the blue light of Erlissa’s lòhrengai. But though her power twisted through it, it was not lòhren-fire. The water swirled, became a spray, and then turned into roiling flurries of snow.
A blue-white cloud rolled over the charred-man. The creature lurched toward Erlissa. It shuddered, just as it had before. Fire curled outward from its body, but it did not escape the swirling blanket of snow. The flames stuttered out.
The charred-man fell to its knees. It opened its mouth to scream. No sound came, but the blue-white snow drove into its gaping maw. It convulsed. Steam rose from it, fogging the charged air.
For a moment, the gruesome sight remained unchanged. And then the snow was gone. The creature convulsed, let out a moan of great pain, the first noise that Lanrik had heard it utter, and then fire shot up harmlessly into the night sky and a putrid stench filled the air. The charred-man died and became what it always had been: the ruined body of a man, blackened and blistered.
Lanrik did not hesitate. He ran straight for Brinhain. The captain appeared shocked, but then kicked his horse into a gallop and charged.
The horse gathered speed, and Lanrik dived and rolled. Deadly hooves flew near him. Dirt and grass sprayed in his face. He twisted clear and came to his feet, just in time to see the Lindrath, older man though he was, leap across the horse’s withers and tackle Brinhain.
They both fell heavily to the ground. The other guards galloped toward them, but a spray of lòhren-fire from Erlissa’s staff sent them scrambling back.
The Lindrath rose, sword in hand. Brinhain did the same. But blade never touched blade.
“Wait!” cried Lanrik. “Stand back!”
The two men looked at him, and he approached. He turned to the captain.
“Enough is enough. The witch-queen is evil, and she has only brought bloodshed to Esgallien. Will you not reconsider? Why fight for her?”
Brinhain did not hesitate. “Because she is power. Pure power. And because she’ll defeat you.”
“No, she won’t. Her power was broken once before. You know the legends. We’ll break it again.”
“I’ve picked my side. I’ve picked the side that’ll win. I’m pledged to her, and she rewards me. Surrender now, and perhaps she’ll show you mercy.”
“You won’t reject her?”
“No. Never. At least,” said Brinhain with a cold smile, “not so long as she’s winning.”
“Then you’re a fool.” He turned to the Lindrath. “This is personal. He struck Erlissa at the Bridge Inn. If there has to be a fight, it’ll be me and him.”
�
�So be it,” said Brinhain. “I know your reputation, but I think it’s overrated. I saw the way you backed down after I hit her.”
Lanrik did not answer. Prudence had governed his actions at the inn, not fear.
He stepped forward. Conhain’s sword glittered in the air. Brinhain wove his own blade in easy loops before him.
Lanrik knew he must win this battle quickly. There were soldiers all around the park. The Witch-queen was coming, and already they had been delayed too long. And yet he did not know how good Brinhain was. He was not one of the newly recruited Royal Guards, that much was clear. And a quick glance at his men showed that they were not worried. They appeared in good spirits, and seemed assured of the outcome. Perhaps they had never seen their captain defeated. If so, there was a first time for everything.
Lanrik lunged forward. He struck with speed and power, but it was only a feint. No sooner did he appear to commit to the blow, than he stepped to the side and away.
Brinhain’s blade did not waver, and the man barely moved. It was a sign of skill. Of great skill, for he had either read Lanrik’s intention, or discerned it during the lunge. Either way, he was good.
A moment later, Brinhain attacked. He drove forward, steel flying through the air in a blistering series of lightning strokes. His men cheered. Erlissa gasped, and the Lindrath remained silent.
Lanrik retreated. He moved back, but never in a straight or predictable line. Conhain’s sword moved easily in his hand, parrying and deflecting. The attack could not continue long, for no one could move with such speed and power without exhausting themselves quickly.
After a few moments Brinhain ceased.
Lanrik looked at him calmly. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Brinhain went red. Rage contorted his face. He struck again, driving forward in uncontrolled anger.
Once more, Lanrik retreated. He made no move that he did not have to, rather, he preserved his strength and breathed deep of the nighttime air.
After a little while, he noticed that Brinhain’s own breathing was ragged. He gulped in air, and his sword strokes slowed. At that point. Lanrik launched his own series of attacks.
