Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3) (3 page)

The inn grew dark, and the serving maid
lit several candles. It was a feeble effort against the growing night, but it
seemed that candles were as scarce here as goodwill.

The door opened soon after, and a young
man endured the same routine that everyone else had. He was obviously another
farm hand, and it looked as though he had been drinking elsewhere before coming
to the Bridge Inn.

The guards let him through with little
fuss, seeming to know him or at least to recognize him as a local. He was tall,
but very young, and Lanrik watched him closely. The man swayed ever so
slightly, and no doubt beer had loosened his tongue as much as it put a falter
in his steps.

Lanrik had a feeling that trouble was
coming. But when it came, it came swiftly and did not take the form that he
expected.

The newcomer looked around him, as though
trying to identify anybody he knew. Failing to see any familiar faces, he set
himself and started to walk to the bar. Halfway between the door and his
destination, he paused. Blinking at the candles, he muttered something
unintelligible, and then spoke in a suddenly loud voice.

“It’s so dark in here that you’d need the
tracking skills of a Raithlin to find the bar.”

The inn went dead still, and the young man
looked around in bafflement.

“Was it something I said?”

The guards turned on him. One of them
struck him hard in the face and another kicked him when he fell down.

“The Raithlin are dead!” the first guard
shouted. “Every last one of them, and good riddance. Their name isn’t spoken
anymore. Do you understand?”

The second guard kicked him again to
emphasize the point.

The youth struggled to a sitting position.
Blood streamed from a gash on his cheek, and he winced as he breathed as though
one of his ribs was broken, which Lanrik thought might well be the case.

The youth looked around him, suddenly
sober. “The Raithlin are all dead,” he said. “Sorry, my mistake.”

With as much dignity as he could find, the
man rose on unsteady legs and staggered out the door.

Lanrik felt sorry for him. He had taken
quite a beating, and the pain would be worse when the alcohol wore off. His
pity was crowded out by another feeling though.
The Raithlin were dead. All
of them.
He felt cold to his very bones, and though it was an outcome that
he had earlier feared, to actually hear it stated as a fact was still a shock.

Erlissa reached out and gently placed a
hand over his own.

Talk slowly returned to the room, but
Lanrik remained still. He only moved when a man at the table adjoining them,
quiet and aloof until then, leaned over and whispered.

It’s not so
, the man said.
I
heard that they escaped the city
.

Lanrik tried to hide his excitement. He
leaned casually toward the man and whispered back.

“Where did you here that?”

“I heard it said in the Merenloth the day
before yesterday – from Bragga Mor himself.”

The stranger looked away then, fearful
that their conversation might be overheard, but he had said enough.

Lanrik considered the information. He knew
Bragga Mor, at least by reputation. He was a famous poet, and he had listened
to him perform many times in the Merenloth. He was also a man of wealth and
prestige in the city. Where most of his poet friends struggled to earn a
living, Bragga Mor had somehow amassed a fortune. It was also said that he
spent money as quickly as he received it, mostly on horse betting, drinking and
womanizing.

 That the man had many contacts in the
city was well known. He walked in all circles of Esgallien society, and he was
respected, despite his rumored shortcomings. Lanrik remembered that the
Lindrath spoke well of him, and that was good enough for him.

He glanced at Erlissa. She read his intent
clearly, and gave a nod of agreement. Their next stop must be the Merenloth,
and a conversation with the poet to discover what he knew. But first, they must
get through the rest of the night at the inn and be rid of Brinhain as soon as
possible in the morning.

It soon grew very quiet. The beating had
subdued whatever faint spirit of levity that had begun to build, and the small
groups of farmhands that had shown up during the afternoon left in quick
succession.

Lanrik and Erlissa retired to the upstairs
level of the inn as soon as they could. They paused in the hallway outside the
room they had secured from the serving maid and spoke for the first time
without fear of being overheard.

“Do you think it’s true?” Erlissa asked.

Lanrik chewed on his lip. “I
want
it to be true, but we’ll only know when we see Bragga Mor. It could be just
another wild rumor, but maybe we’ve discovered a trail to follow.”

Erlissa hugged him. “We’ll find out, Lan.
That’s what we came here for. And as we do, we’ll learn more about Ebona.”

Lanrik gave her a direct look. “It might
be harder than we thought. I don’t like the attitude of the guards. It seems to
me that they think they can get away with anything.”

Erlissa nodded. “I know what you mean.
Their attitude shows that they
have
been getting away with everything.
They were always arrogant, but what I saw tonight makes me wonder if there’s
any law at all in the city.”

“The king has much to answer for,” Lanrik
said. “The guards were always his, and if they’re doing what they
like – it’s because he’s doing what
he
likes.”

Erlissa frowned. “Where does their loyalty
lie, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, have they remained faithful to
the king, or do they now serve Ebona?”

Lanrik had not considered that before. The
king might have become little more than a figurehead. Ebona was the true power,
and she would be ordering things to her will. The Royal Guard would have
realized that sooner than the rest of the city. Were they all like the ones
that he had seen today? Had they thrown their lot in with her and sought to
ride to ever-greater power under her influence? Or were there some that refuted
her? It was something he had to try to find out, because it might make a
difference when Aranloth moved to overthrow the witch.

Erlissa opened the door to the room, but
Lanrik hesitated.

“What’s the matter?”

He grinned at her. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“Bodyguards sleep outside the door of
their employer’s room. That way they can ensure no one gets inside.”

Erlissa shrugged. “I don’t think anybody
would notice, except me.”

Lanrik shook his head. “They’ll notice.
We’ve already got off on the wrong foot with Brinhain. We can’t afford to
arouse any suspicion.”

Erlissa stamped her foot. “How can you
sleep on hard timber?”

“I’m a Raithlin. I can sleep anywhere.”

Erlissa pursed her lips and shook her head
as though she could not believe what she was hearing.

“At least let me get you a pillow.”

“Just a blanket will be fine,” he said.
“Bodyguards aren’t supposed to use pillows. It encourages too deep a sleep.”

“How do you know so much about
bodyguards?”

“I spent a fair amount of time at inns
when I was training. Retired Raithlin often act as instructors, and we moved
around to different parts of the city depending on which instructor we had to
see.”

Erlissa went inside, obviously still
unconvinced that it was necessary to maintain their ruse so strictly. She
returned after a moment with a thick blanket and handed it to him.

“That should keep you warm,” she said.
“But it’s going to be a long night.”

“The sooner it’s over, and tomorrow’s
consultation with Brinhain, the better.”

They said goodnight, and Erlissa closed
the door. Lanrik listened as she prepared for bed. When the noise stopped, and
he knew she would need nothing else, he sat down, leaned his back against the
door and closed his eyes.

But he did not sleep. There was truth in
the comment that bodyguards were not supposed to use pillows. The hard floor
made anything but dozing impossible, and that suited him tonight. He did not
like Brinhain, his guards, or for that matter anybody else staying at the inn.
He trusted them even less, and he intended to be prepared for anything.

The night wore on. He dozed fitfully,
rarely sleeping for more than a few minutes at a time. And yet it was restful
anyway. He did not need much sleep, and a few minutes here and there were
sufficient to see him well enough rested for the next morning.

As the night drifted by he thought of what
he had learned so far. It was still all rumor, but at least he and Erlissa had
seen things with their own eyes. They would learn more tomorrow, hopefully from
Bragga Mor, but also just by moving through the city.

No matter how bad the influence of the
Witch-queen, people must still leave their homes for work and food. The markets
would attract people, and that was a place to observe them and see how things
stood. It was also a good place to see what the Royal Guard were doing. Were
they concentrated on places like this, places where outsiders often stopped on
their way to the city? Or were they spread out among Esgallien’s population?
That alone would serve to indicate who Ebona feared most. And knowing that was
a guide to how she might best be opposed.

The noise had long ceased from the common
room below, and what few patrons that had stayed, as well as the guards, were
now in their beds. As the night wore on, Lanrik felt less inclined to sleep. He
had rested well, and now he simply sat against the door and dozed. His hands,
beneath the warm blanket, rested loosely on the cold timber of Erlissa’s staff.

The hours slipped by in half wakefulness,
and away in the city he heard the intermittent barking of dogs, and eventually
the crowing of a rooster. The night wore on until dawn was near, that hour when
sleep was often deepest. But Lanrik remained alert, and it was then that his
instincts jerked his eyes open.

He did not know what had roused him. He
sat there, unmoving but wide-awake, and his heart thrummed in his chest as
though he was running a one-mile race.

Nothing happened. The light from the moon
filtered through the narrow window at the end of the hallway and filled the
passage with a river of pale light. And then he heard a creak followed by a
faint rasp. At the end of the hall, where the stairs descended into the common
room, shadows thickened. After a few moments they took the shape of three
menacing figures: men who paused on the landing; men who watched, waited and
checked to see if he was awake.

He was more than awake. His heart thudded
even faster now, and a cold sweat beaded his skin; but he made no move. He
wanted to see what the men would do. Perhaps they would be scared off if he
stood. Or perhaps not. They might attack anyway, trying to rob him and Erlissa,
and then make a quick escape. And if he let them know that he saw them, he
would lose the advantage of surprise. And he needed that, for if there was a fight
it would be three against one.

The rooster crowed again, long and shrill,
and at that moment the men began to steal toward him. He knew them now, dim
shapes though they were: the three surly men from the common room who had
leered at Erlissa, and he feared they had more on their minds than robbery.

He gripped the cold wood of Erlissa’s
staff. His sword would have been better, but the staff was ready to hand, and
it was a dangerous weapon in its own right. It gave an advantage of reach,
which would be welcome, for though these men had not worn swords they certainly
carried knives.

They swept as slow shadows down the hall
and approached. He caught the glint of steel on drawn blades, saw even the grim
cast of their faces, and knew that they had come for murder.

Anger boiled in his blood, and his chest
beat no longer to the thrum of fear, but to a rage that burned fiercer than any
fire.

He flung the blanket at the nearest man
and leaped to his feet. The staff speared through the shadowy air, its dark
walnut nearly invisible, and its tip drove like a dagger thrust into the groin
of the second nearest man. There was a cry of pain, loud and sharp, and the
assailant reeled away in agony.

The third man jumped in, knife flashing.
Lanrik felt a whoosh of air near his face as he dodged to the side. The blade
missed him, but the man’s arm bunted into his neck. Lanrik charged, shouldering
his attacker and sending him crashing into the opposite wall. As the man
bounced off it, Lanrik smashed the staff’s tip into his head and knocked him
out.

The other two men rounded on him. They had
not seen a staff wielded like this before, and it confused them. They were used
to both ends being used equally, not the one tip like a spear point. Few knew
the technique, for it was something that Lanrik’s uncle had taught him, and
even the Raithlin had only seen it rarely.

His attackers were wary of him, and paused
for a moment, but the momentum of their ill will carried them on. They charged
together. Lanrik drove the staff point into the first man’s chest. There was a
crack, perhaps of bone, and he collapsed.