Defiant Swords (Durlindrath #2) (14 page)

Shorty took some deep breaths. He was thinking the wrong
way, and he knew it. He must accept his death, if so it must be, but he would
not die without one last attempt, no matter how desperate the plan seemed, to
win this fight.

Brand and Kareste did not have to seek the beasts that the
twisted sorcery of Khamdar had unleashed upon the world. The Halathrin
transformed into beasts found them.

The two travelers had entered the foothills of Lòrenta. Those
hills now climbed about them, but where Brand and Kareste rode along low paths
between rocky ledges and creeks, following some ancient trail, the ground was damp,
or more often even boggy.

As they penetrated deeper into the wild lands of hill and
moor, the temperature dropped and thick fogs clung to the earth like a blanket
thrown over a bed.

But the fog was not warm and comforting; it hung cold and
clammy in the air, making it hard to see or to hear. And it hid things.
Creatures roamed unseen, but the evidence of their existence was left in the
moist earth the next morning, for the trail was marked ahead of them as well as
behind them. Brand was no tracker, and he did not know how to read the signs,
but something was drawn to them, though he did not think it was the beasts. If
so, he guessed they would have attacked.

They moved now up and along the ridges, sometimes dropping back
into dark hollows before the trail took them high again, but up or down they ever
moved toward the center of the hills.

The silence of the wild land grew about them, and there was
little to be seen in grass or sky or tree. Yet Brand knew there was wildlife
here, he just did not have the skill or knowledge to observe it. Yet for all
its remoteness, it was the kind of place that he would love to explore.

They camped one night beside a tarn. The dark water was
still, so still as to seem as glass. Weeping willows grew about it, their
drooping branches and long leaves overhanging the shadowy water.

In the trees were crows. The birds flapped near silently,
stretching their wings and cawing in subdued fashion. They croaked and called
and squawked, but the noise they made was quiet, or else the moisture-laden air
deadened it.

All through the night the birds muttered to themselves, and
no other sound was to be heard in all the world.

The next morning dawned, but the sun was little more than a
white haze in the fog-shrouded east. The crows stayed where they were, and they
became still and silent, looking about them with tilted heads and beady eyes.

Brand and Kareste ate a cold breakfast. They could find no
dry timber for a fire.

Kareste was anxious, her green-gold eyes studying their
surrounds. At length, she stood.

“Something comes,” she whispered.

Brand stood also, his restless hand fondling his sword hilt.

“What is it?”

She concentrated. Her fingers twitched absently on the
broken half of Shurilgar’s staff.

“The sorcery that I must undo. My greatest test.”

Brand felt a chill run through his bones.
No. Not your
greatest test. But that will follow swiftly after.

He heard nothing except the slow drip of moisture from the
long willow leaves. And then, ever so faintly, he heard the padding of paws
along dark trails somewhere in the nearby birch wood. The fog seemed to grow
heavier. The white haze of the sun darkened.

“They bring it with them,” Kareste whispered.

“The fog? How is that possible? They’re now only beasts.”

“They are what I told you earlier – creatures from
the otherworld. They have their own powers, but they are bound to this earth
not by men or elugs, but by the immortal Halathrin. That strengthens them,
makes them different from anything you have seen before. They have powers of
body and mind, and some of magic, as you would call it. Expect nothing of them.
Be prepared for anything.

Brand was not sure what to make of her words, except that he
did not like them.

Not long after, the creatures came into view. They were shy,
but they made no real attempt to stay concealed. Kareste had been right about
them: they were not like the hounds that had pursued him near Lake Alithorin.
These beasts, although large and muscular, had no tufted fur or bare patches of
skin. They were long limbed and sleek, and their coats were a glorious white,
bright as the full moon.

There was fog all through the hills, but these creatures certainly
did seem to bring their own with them. Wherever they paced, a silvery shimmer
fell about them. They were sleek, graceful, beautiful. And they were
otherworldly. That much he could see at a glance.

The beasts padded closer, their long legs delicately
covering the ground, their paws sure footed. They seemed as dancers, their
movements more fluid and natural than anything he had ever seen, and yet their every
movement had a purpose. Not only did they draw closer, but they spread out and
formed a half-moon ring about the two travelers.

Brand and Kareste backed away toward the picketed horses
near the edge of the tarn. When the first wolf growled, it sent a shiver up his
spine. For all the grace and beauty of the beast, the sound that came from it
was hideous, all the worse for being unexpected. Its fangs were long and sharp,
and its red tongue lolled from the rictus of its lips.

Several of the other beasts howled in response. One howled
so loud and so pitifully that Brand wished he had never heard such a sound. It
stood before him, shimmering silvery light all about it, and as though the
light were fog that swirled and eddied, it seemed to rise higher on some invisible
updraft of air.

But it was not air or fog. It was the beast itself. And when
the swirling movement ceased, the beast was gone. What stood before him in its
place was a Halathrin girl.

The girl seemed young, though she was an immortal and had
perhaps walked the world since before the Camar had wandered out of the dim
west as savages. Or she had been on the earth less than a score of
years – he could not tell.

But he knew that she was beautiful. Her arms and body were
covered by white samite. A
soft
hood
was pulled up over her head, yet the shimmer from it paled beside the
white-gold of her hair that spilled and escaped the confines of the cloth. Her
eyes
,
above
high
cheek
bones
, were bright and keen, seeming
one moment green and the next blue.

He stared at her, unable to take his gaze from the perfection
of her skin or the nobility of her features. There was wisdom in her gaze, and
pain. And both were deeper than the comprehension of his mind. But he saw
anxiety there also, and anguish that tore at her soul
however
hard
she strove not to show it.

When the girl spoke, she spoke in the language of the
Halathrin. He knew
it
.
He
heard her words and understood them. It was the language of
travelers all across the wide lands of Alithoras. And yet he had never heard it
spoken like this. It seemed to him that anything he had heard before was like a
blind man trying to
describe
how a day of high summer
felt. But with her it was as though the warm sun shone and the green grass was
soft beneath his feet and he could gaze through air so clear that he could see
the red tongue of a bird gathering nectar from a flower across the other side
of a valley. Summer was her very presence, and he felt it on his face and
breathed it in with every breath.

“Forgive us,” she said. And those simple words seemed to
carry more meaning than a thousand words spoken by anybody else.

Tears from her bright eyes rolled down her high cheeks, but
she made no move to wipe them away.

“We hunt. We must hunt. It is what we are made to do, and
the devils inside drive us. We—”

The silver shimmer about her turned and twisted, suddenly
becoming black. She raised her head and let out a tortured scream, and then she
seemed to collapse to the ground. But she was gone, and the beast that Brand
had seen first stood in the same place, its red tongue lolling.

He
let out a
long breath. His doubts were gone. The fate of the Halathrin was worse than
death, for they understood what was happening to them but could do nothing to
prevent it. Cardoroth might fall, might already have fallen, but Gilhain and
Aranloth could not hold it against him that he came here to put an end to this.
Kareste had been right.

But could she achieve what she had come here to do? And on
what did she wait? For she stood silent and unmoving.

Brand did not know what would happen next, but it was the
one thing he did not expect just at that moment.

There was a sudden flash of wings. A hawk darted through the
air and screeched. The beasts looked at it. Kareste looked at it, and Brand
looked at it with a racing heart.

It landed, seeming to spear into the earth with a thump, but
even before the wings ceased beating Durletha sprang up from the ground.

The witch stood between the two travelers and the beasts.
She had taken the form of the old hag that Brand had first met her as, but her
eyes were keen and bright.

Brand’s heart raced even more, and it seemed that he could
not stop it. A sudden fear overwhelmed him, and sweat coated his palms.

Now, of all times, the witch reappeared, and it was not by
accident. This was not just a test of Kareste’s power, but also a choosing of
Light or Shadow, and Brand dreaded what evil the witch might be able to work in
the midst of all that.

Shorty was prepared to die. He had put up a good fight, and
whatever else happened he had bought some time for Brand. Every hour counted.
Every hour Cardoroth survived was an extra hour his friend had to save them.

With a thrust of his jaw Shorty stopped his slow retreat. He
might die today, but he had no intention of making it easy for Hvargil.

The traitor to the realm, who would be its king, advanced.
He smiled coldly, but in truth he had nothing to be happy about. Whatever
arrangement he had with the elùgroths now, he did not guess how quickly it
would dissolve later. Lust for dominion had driven him and blinded his sharp
mind to what it would be like to rule under the hand of the elùgroths. Promises
would come easily to them now, but their words would be less than dust and ash
if the winds of fortune blew victory their way.

“Time to die,” little man. “Did I not warn you? You should
have fled when you could.”

Shorty made no answer, but his eyes glinted with hatred.

Hvargil grinned at him.

“Will you pit bare hands against a Halathrin blade?”

Shorty did not hesitate.

“If I must.”

Hvargil looked at him, still advancing very slowly, but it
seemed that a shadow of doubt was on him, and he grasped at an idea that suddenly
crossed his mind.

“Perhaps I’ll show you mercy. Run. Run back to the gate now,
and I’ll let you live. Your life for the sacrifice of some pride. It’s a fair
exchange, wouldn’t you say?”

Shorty made no move, and Hvargil slowed his advance even
more.

“Maybe when I rule the city I was born to lead, eldest of
the royal line that I am, I will need my own Durlin. If you survive the fall of
the city, seek me out. This much I’ll say, for a king always rewards
valor – you have fought bravely.”

Shorty thought, and he thought quickly. Not about serving
Hvargil, he would never do that, but about why the offer of mercy was made.
There was only one reason, and a lot of little things came together to serve
it.  Hvargil always wished to show himself worthy of being a king, to show
himself as reasonable and to present himself as an alternative to Gilhain. He,
by contrast to the real king, could afford to show mercy, whereas Gilhain,
constrained by necessity, could only ask men to serve and die. By drawing
attention to these things Hvargil hoped to undermine the will of the defenders
to fight.

Shorty knew what he had to do. He had to fight to the last,
fight against all odds, and come out victorious. It was a near impossible task,
but it would dismay Hvargil and defeat the purpose of the whole challenge.
Hvargil had guessed from the beginning that Gilhain would send a champion.

But Shorty smiled to himself. He liked a challenge. It made
him feel alive. And looking at things in that light he realized that even
dying, so long as he faced it with courage, would work in favor of bolstering
the hearts of the defenders.

Shorty did what should never be done in a fight. He turned
his back on the enemy. But he felt safe, at least for a few moments. Hvargil
could not stab him in the back before all the defenders who looked on. That
would only harden their resolve to fight.

Slowly, Shorty pointed to the battlement where the king
stood, and he bowed to him long and deep. When he straightened, he loosed the
cloth tied about his waist that bore the king’s emblem, and he held it high.

Slowly, with a tight grin on his face, he turned to face
Hvargil.

The man-who-would-be-king watched him. His jaw was clenched.

“A man is judged by his deeds,” Shorty said, “and not by his
height. And a king is judged by his loyalty to the people he rules. Kill me,
traitor, if you can. But your gamble is already lost. In the eyes of those who
defend Cardoroth, I will die as a hero, and they will oppose you, and those you
serve, all the more.”

Hvargil did not answer. But his face was a twisted thing
beneath the beautiful helm, and he unleashed a furious attack.

Shorty retreated once again. As he stepped back he zigzagged
randomly, making it hard for Hvargil to reach him. Agility combated brute
strength, and it gave him time. But only so much. The Halathrin blade whirred
through the air, always near and getting nearer.

So near the blade came that Shorty was indeed cut several
times on his arms and hands. They were only nicks, and yet the white surcoat of
the Durlin became blotched red with his blood.

Finally, Shorty saw his opportunity. Hvargil made yet another
thrust, but this one was just a fraction too far.

It was not just for show that Shorty had taken the cloth
belt of the king from his waist. He used it now, looping it around the blade,
the fabric catching and tightening about the jeweled hilt.

With a great heave, using all his strength but applying it in
one swift jerk, he pulled the blade from Hvargil’s grip.

But he was not done. Even as the sword tumbled through the
air he bounded forward and rammed his helm against the head of Hvargil. The
other man was not ready for it. There was a mighty thump, for the blow hit Hvargil
under the jaw and drove upward. His neck could not turn to diminish the force
of the strike.

Hvargil staggered back. He was dazed, yet even so he drew a
dagger. Shorty kicked it out of his hand. And then he unleashed his anger. For
this was a man who had cost Cardoroth dearly.

With speed and agility he punched and kicked and struck a
whirlwind of hammering blows at his opponent. Hvargil reeled away, and as he
half turned Shorty managed to reef the helm from his head.

Drawn to that now vulnerable target that he had exposed,
Shorty found renewed strength and struck with fury until Hvargil’s face was cut
and bleeding in many places.

Amazingly, Hvargil kept to his feet, trying to fight back. But
a great right hook eventually caught him clean on the side of his head. His
knees buckled. His legs gave beneath him like a felled tree, and he toppled to the
ground.

Shorty stepped back a few paces and retrieved the Halathrin
blade. It felt strange in his hand, but he walked forward again, discarding his
own helm and placing the Halathrin wrought helmet on his own head. There he
stood above Hvargil, the sword levelled at him as the other man tried to get
up.

Anger flushed through Shorty again. His hand trembled, but
he could not kill an unarmed man. He stepped away, and bent down to pick up the
king’s cloth that lay in the dirt. With a flourish, he held the belt high. From
the Cardurleth came a roar. And then it doubled, thundering down from the wall
and rolling across the field. He had won.

But even so, it was not yet over. The enemy war drums beat
loud. There was a sudden rush of elugs. A thousand of them raced across the
field. Shorty stared at them.

Hvargil staggered up and swayed before him, and then he bent
over and vomited. Somewhere behind him lay Shorty’s own sword, the sword of his
father, and he knew he would never hold that familiar hilt in his hand again.

Shorty turned and ran. There was no shame in doing so now. 
But the gate would never be opened in time, and even if that were possible, the
defenders could not do it anyway. They could not risk the enemy seizing it, and
holding it open long enough for the great horde behind to enter.

Shorty knew he would be torn to shreds, and no sortie would
come out of the gate to save him. They could not risk that for one man, nor
could he blame them.

He nearly ran anyway, for the instinct to live, if even only
for a few moments longer, was strong. But instead, he bowed once more to the
king.

When he straightened, he faced the onrushing enemy, raised
his sword high, and planted his feet firmly on the ground.

Gilhain looked down with horror on the scene far below.

“Do something!” he said to Aranloth.

It was not a command. It was not a suggestion. There was an
element of begging in his voice, and he did not care who heard it.

But the lòhren was already moving.

One of Aranloth’s arms swept slowly out before him, palm
down. Then, just as slowly, he turned the palm upward.

There was strain on his pale face, for whatever he did taxed
him; it taxed him more than a man who was newly come back from near death
should be taxed, but he did it unflinchingly. And he did it with a slow determination,
the same slow determination and inhuman patience that had enabled him to face
situations such as this before, to withhold his power until just that moment of
maximum effect.  

Gilhain looked at the racing elugs. They streamed across the
ground like a river that had flooded its banks, and they raised their swords,
yelling and cavorting as they sped, each one trying to be the first to reach
their victim.

Gilhain looked at his champion. Shorty stood still as a
standing stone, a stone that had been planted there for millennia. His sword
was up, but his head was down. There was something in his posture that told
Gilhain the man was not scared of death, and yet all the same he was filled
with overwhelming sadness. For the end of his life was come, and he knew not
what, if anything, would follow.

And then, transforming that sad scene, a wall of flame
spurted from the ground. It leaped and danced and grew.

Shorty slowly straightened. The flame stood between him and
the enemy. He hesitated a moment, but no more than that, and then he turned and
began to walk back to the gate.

He did not hurry, and he took the time to point his sword at
Aranloth upon the battlement. It might have been a salute. Or a thank you. Or a
sign of respect, but whatever it was, it was a solemn gesture, and the lòhren
returned it just as slowly, the flames dancing higher as his arm moved.

“Thank you,” Gilhain said quietly. “If ever a man deserved
to live, it’s him.”