Defiant Swords (Durlindrath #2) (8 page)

Arell returned to the room. Even in so little time the fear
that Aranloth had already died near paralyzed her.

She stopped running when she neared the entrance.
Haste
was not a good look for a healer; it inspired a sense
of panic, and that was not what patients, or anybody else, ever needed.

She methodically checked
the
lòhren
’s pulse again when she
returned, and she hid her relief that he still lived as much as she hid her
fear that he had died.

“
What
’ve you got there?” Taingern
asked
,
gesturing
at
the
book.

“It’s old,” she replied. “It must have been copied several
times
, for the language, while stilted, is modern.”

She sat down and opened it. For one brief moment she looked
at him, noted that his face still seemed pale, and then she put her head down and
flicked through the pages.

“It was written in the court of Queen Carnhaina. The author,
one Karappe, was a great healer, responsible for many of the treatises that we
still use today – but this is more a memoire of his queen’s accomplishments.”

“That’s not a Camar name.”

“No. He was a foreigner. “The queen rescued him from a
battlefield somewhere when he was a child. He thought of her as a mother, and
in a
strange
kind of way that was exactly what she was
to him.”

She paused, flicking carefully through the pages.
The
earlier
parts
dealt
with
Carnhaina’s
ascension to the throne,
and
then her
first
battles.
She skipped those chapters, seeking one of the last ones where
the
queen
was
old.
Old
, of
course
, was a
relative term. The events in the book
had
occurred
near
on a thousand years ago.

She nearly held her breath when she found the chapter that
she wanted.

“This is it. It’s a little story, one of many the healer
tells about Carnhaina. But all his stories serve a purpose.”

She paused, and then began to read out a sentence here or
there to give Taingern the gist of events.

So it came to pass that the lòhren Gavnor, the least of
the lòhrens in Queen Carnhaina’s court, attempted to Spirit Walk.

She read on, swiftly passing by much else that was interesting.

At length, the bonds of the flesh were broken; his spirit
soared. He saw what was, and what yet may be, and he reported to his
queen … but the enemy discovered him. Thus was he assailed. Pursued
by those of greater might, he fled. Chased incessantly,
he
retreated
into the uttermost darkness. There, he lost his enemies. They dared not follow.
Yet, in saving himself, he therefore was lost also. Too far he strayed. Too
weak was become the link between body and spirit. On the brink his life
hovered…

Arell read on. It was clear to her that the healer was
reporting things that he did not fully understand, yet it was the essence of
his story that counted, not the details.

Gavnor was a favorite of the queen. She desired his
service, and not even death would she let prevent it. At great risk to herself…

“Some of this just doesn’t make sense,” Arell said.

Blood calls to blood she proclaimed. And Gavnor was
related to her through her father’s line … Her face was set. No doubt
she showed. With a swift motion she cut herself. The small blade, marked with
the Sign of Halathgar, cut with ease. Sharp it was. Her palm seemed uninjured,
and then her royal blood sprang forth. She that was queen bled like a commoner,
but no common act it was: rather it was a deed of nobility … Red her
blood was, and bright, and her Court muttered in astonishment and averted their
gazes. She laughed at them, her deep-throated laugh filled with disdain and
courage and defiance. She that was as a Queen of the World cared nothing for
their petty opinions. Gavnor was
of
her
blood,
and she would save him if it could be done.

“There is more like that. Karappe cared little for her
court, it seems, though his love of her is plain.

Queen Carnhaina spoke, her voice haughty and prideful as
ever. To Gavnor she called, her great utterances ringing through the uttermost
dark … And Gavnor, hearing and obeying, came back into the light.
Thus did the queen recall her servant; thus did blood call to blood.

“There’s more, but that’s all that counts.”

Taingern looked at her stonily. He knew what she intended,
and he did not like it. Yet he did not try to talk her out of it.

“Speak, Taingern. Am I mad, or is there some hope, however
slim, in this?”

He sighed. “As Brand obviously told you, we met her once.
Her spirit at least. We saved her tomb from a sorcerer. Of that, I’ll
not
speak.
But
to try to summon her, to summon her by asking the king to spill his own blood,
well, that
is
doubly
bold.”

“But do you think it’ll work?
I
have here the very words that Carnhaina spoke, and Gilhain
is of her line. Blood calls to blood.”

“Maybe.
But
the
king
has
no
magic
.
Then
again
,
I
don’t
think
anybody
could
compel
her – 
with o
r
without
magic
. If
she
comes,
she’ll come of her own choice, and judging from my past experience, anything is
possible.
But
she is not the sort that likes to be
summoned
,
even
if
it’s
only
an
attempt…”

“I’m a healer, Taingern. It’s a chance I’m willing to take.
It’s the
only
chance we have.”

The Durlin ran a hand through his hair. “There’s a floor in
your plan though, as well you know.”

“Yes, I know. The king is of her blood. But Aranloth
is
not
of
hers. She may not be able to
recall his spirit as she did long ago for her servant. Yet Aranloth is not
just
any lòhren. And the queen, even
in death, has power.”

Taingern closed his eyes. What he was remembering, and he
obviously
was
remembering something, etched an expression of awe
over
all
his
features.

“Yes, she has power. Even in death, she has power. But she’s
not like Gilhain. They share the same blood, but she is … she is the
Witch
Queen.
”

Gilhain did not expect a let up in the battle. Nor was
there
one. The horde came again,
hurling
itself against the Cardurleth, spending
its
life at the command of the enemy leadership.

And the enemy leadership spent
life
cheaply. But the horde seemed near
endless
;
no matter how many died, more were sent
against
the
wall. Yet for this much
Gilhain
could be grateful: there had
not as yet been any further sorcerous attacks. Elùgroths had died when their
summoning had been destroyed.

He looked down over the battlement. The serpent was still
there, twitching now and then in its long death. The enemy must clamber over it
when they came to attack, and
the
reminder
of
the
failure
of
one
of
their
great
hopes
would sap their morale. Yet in time the stench of it as
it decayed would rise up to the defending soldiers, and it would add
yet
one
more thing
to
the many
that
they must endure.

Yet they
would
endure. Pride swelled his heart and
tears glistened unexpectedly in his eyes. Everything had been thrown at the
defenders, steel and sorcery both, and they still defied the enemy. Live or
die, save Cardoroth or fall with it into oblivion, they had earned a place in
the history of Alithoras. Their story would be told as long as free people
remained in the land.

During lulls the stonemasons worked on the battlement. There
were many of them, and soldiers helped also. Bit by bit the Cardurleth took
shape again. The merlons were necessary: they offered protection to the archers
and soldiers both. Men had died because of their lack, but what the serpent had
broken men now repaired. And a will seemed to be growing among them, a spirit
that he had never seen before. Nor would he have, for Cardoroth had never been
pressed this hard in his lifetime, or for many long
generations
before.

He saw on the faces of the men a certainty of future death,
but he also saw a look of determination. Death would not claim them one week,
one day, one hour, nor even one moment sooner than it must. They would fight
without stint and bring as many of the enemy with them into oblivion as they
could.

Gilhain contemplated the opposing host. The sorcerers who
led it must be tired. But so too were the lòhrens. And Aranloth was gone. It
was only now that the old man could no longer be seen, leaning on his staff and
calmly watching the enemy, that Gilhain realized how much he had leaned on him.
He was the king’s staff, the crutch for the whole city. And Gilhain missed him.

He felt the small soft hand of his wife slip into his own.
She always knew what he was thinking.

They did not speak, but stood watching the enemy as the elug
war drums slowed to a near stop, and then began a different beat.

Aurellin tilted her head. “What does
that
mean?”

“I don’t know,” Gilhain said. “Aranloth would. And I miss
him.”

“We all miss him. But if he’s not here to tell us, then
we’ll discover it in due course ourselves.”

They did not have to wait too long. Within a few moments
Aurellin coolly drew the short sword that she had taken to wearing at her side.

“They’ll now use what they always hold back – the
lethrin.”

Gilhain saw straightaway that she was right. The lethrin
began to march to the fore of the host. They strode in unison; their towering
seven-foot frames dwarfed the elugs. The iron maces they carried were held over
their right shoulder, and the precious stones on their black uniforms glinted.

In silence the lethrin strode, singing no marching song nor
chanting any war cry, but the stomp of their boots rose up toward the
defenders
, and it seemed that the ground reverberated with
their menacing approach. Fear came before them in a wave, for these were the
troops that had taken cities in the past; these were the creatures whose
hide-like skin defied edged weapons; these were the shadow-spawned soldiers who
slew in silence and made no cry even in death.

They came before the Cardurleth. A hail of arrow shafts
greeted them. They bore no shields and
wore
only
silvered
mail
vests,
for they needed
little
defense. Instead, they
now
held their maces before them and flicked arrows away with
deft movements; too deft for their size, but in these creatures great strength
and athletic grace were combined: Gilhain knew
that
and feared it.

Yet he knew also their weaknesses. Legend spoke of them.
Aranloth had discussed it with him. Fire and axes could bring them down.

He gave a signal. Men brought forth vats of oil, stored at
the back of the battlement. These they got ready to pour over the wall, and
archers prepared special arrows that would be tied with oil-soaked cloth and
set afire.

The lethrin ceased their march. They stood ready beneath the
wall, but they held no ladders. These were being brought up swiftly behind them
now by elugs, and with these ladder-carriers came other elugs. They
held
wide
shields
constructed
of some sort of metal, though they were thin and easily borne.

This was something new, and Gilhain’s mind raced. Swiftly he
considered these new things,
double
the
width
of
a
normal
shield,
and
discovered their purpose. They were not foolproof, but they would offer a
greater chance to the lethrin climbing the wall. That was where they had often
been defeated in the past, for their numbers were never great and by killing
them by fire as they climbed
the
axemen
waiting
for
them
would
not
be
overwhelmed
.
But now this would not
work
,
for
the
shields
would
deflect
the
oil. And it would take many axemen to kill each lethrin.

“We’re at risk of being overrun,” Gilhain said.

“What’s to be done?” Aurellin asked.

“I’m working on it.”

At that moment the lethrin did what they had never done
before. They raised their heads and in seemingly one voice yelled a single
word
:
Kardoch!

Gilhain did not know what it meant. But it filled him with a
growing worry. It set
the
lethrin
loose like an
arrow
sped from
a bow and they commenced to run toward the wall. And he still had no plan.

The lethrin were silent once more. Their great strides took
them to the
base
of
the
Cardurleth
, and
there
,
elugs scampering about them, they commenced to climb the ladders brought by
their comrades. Up each ladder first went an elug, and each of these
lifted
one of the
strange
shields
above
them. They climbed swiftly for all that they were
encumbered, and Gilhain knew they had special straps to help hold the shields
to
one
arm
and that
also they had spent much time training the maneuver. That could be a good
thing, for if they were repelled their moral would sink low. The serpent was
destroyed, and if their special surprise method to take the city failed, they
would be disheartened.

But Gilhain must first make that happen. And at last he knew
what he was going to do. If the oil was of no use thrown over the battlement,
he must use it at the top of the Cardurleth itself.

He quickly gave orders and they were carried out all down
the defenses to each side.

The lethrin climbed. Up the ladders they came,
their
long arms hauling them with speed. Their black tunics,
trimmed with precious stones, gleamed and sparkled. Their silvered chain mail
vests, which left their arms free, glinted. In their mighty hands, though they
climbed, they still held their enormous maces.

The defenders were not idle while the lethrin climbed. Some
shot arrows or dropped rocks, but these had little effect. Most were repelled
by the lead elug on each ladder that held the strange shields. Anything that
slipped past them was shrugged aside by the lethrin like an ox merely flicking
its ears in annoyance at a fly. But other men carried out a task of greater
importance. They ran oil in a line along the entire length of the Cardurleth
assailed by the enemy. When they were done, they stepped back.

Gilhain waited. To fire it too soon was to allow the lethrin
a warning. To fire it too late was to risk them passing over the lip of the
battlement and beyond before the flames took hold.

He gave a signal. A lone horn blew, and men with torches ran
forward and dropped them by the score in the oil. Everyone leapt back.

“Now, have hope!” Gilhain said to Aurellin.

The lethrin neared. The
shield
-bearing
elugs came first. Over the rampart they came, and fear came with them for they
knew their job was done and that they would die. Yet they were surprised that
the defenders
had
backed away.

Momentarily, hope showed on their faces. Then grim fear
again as the flames took to the oil. But the elugs had nowhere to go. The
lethrin surged up behind them, forcing them to leap forward like sparkling wine
from an uncorked bottle.

The elugs spilled out on the battlement. Flame took them.
They screamed. Some tried to jump back over the battlement to end the pain, but
the lethrin still drove them forward. There was no retreat that way.

Yet the lethrin paused themselves. They saw the flame, and
they feared it. While they paused, men shot at them from only a few feet away
with their longbows. Neither their toughened hide nor their chainmail vests
were entirely proof against attack at such close range. Some died, but those
still coming up from behind pushed them ahead even as these had pushed the
elugs

They jumped
through
the flames.
Their black tunics caught alight. But their great maces rose in their hands and
they charged at the defenders.

Gilhain assessed
his
men. They
remained resolute, and pride surged in him. The enemy had thrown everything at
them, yet still they held firm. And they held again against the rush of lethrin
that now threatened to swamp them.

The lethrin crashed into them, maces swinging, using their
size and weight to try to smash all opposition away. But the men fought
doggedly, ducking, weaving, avoiding blows and distracting the enemy as best
they could while axemen worked their trade.

The axes did little damage, but here and there a lethrin
fell. When that happened, they were not allowed up again. It was a grim
business.

The battle hung in the balance. The lethrin fought silently.
The men fought determinedly. There was no give in either, and yet the fire had
not been without effect. It played a small part in the initial rush, but oil
splashed
up
from
boots
onto
skin and clothes. It caught and burned, and it did not go out.

The lethrin began to waver, yet they had driven the men back
and soon the enemy would order another charge. If a new wave of attackers
reached the wall, the fight would be lost.

Gilhain gave the signal that he had waited for patiently. It
was now or never, and it would raise morale and speed the fight, or they were
all doomed. He turned to the man behind him, his horn-bearer, who held one of
the great carnyx horns. He would lead
all
the
horn
-blowers, and all down the line they would blow, perhaps
a hundred of them.

The first low note sounded, and the others came to life with
it. It was a sound out of the deep reaches of the past, out of the age of heroes.
The horns were man high, tall as the tall men who bore them, but they held them
up until the brass mouths voiced their unearthly moan twelve feet in the air.

And so unearthly was the slow growing din that thrummed and
boomed and bellowed like a wild beast that goosebumps stood out on Gilhain’s
skin. Here was the same sound that rang in the ears of his ancestors as they
fought to survive and
eventually
found
realms. Here was the sound that laid their kings to rest since before Cardoroth
was
even
built, back
in
the
dim
days
when
the
Camar dwelled nigh to the lands
of the Halathrin,
back
into
even
dimmer
days
before
that
when
they lived on the green plains
and
in
the
dark
forests
west of Halathar.

And the defenders stirred to it. It roiled through their
blood. It gave strength to their arms and courage to their hearts. Their axes
bit harder. Their eyes burned with the spirit inside them. They fell, but they
got up again. They were wounded, but they fought heedless of their injuries.
They saw death press at them, but they stared it down.

And the lethrin faltered.
This
was courage that they had seldom met, and the fire still
burned wherever the oil touched them. Their attack wavered, and then for the
first time in the history of Alithoras they turned and fled. And the jeers of
the defenders went after them.