Defiant Swords (Durlindrath #2), page 10
Gilhain glanced over at the sarcophagus that held her remains. Few knew that this was her resting place, here in her tower atop its parapet, beneath the light of the constellation of bright Halathgar. He fingered the hilt of the knife he carried, the same one that he had given to Brand, the same one that the elùgroth had hurled at him. It was marked with the constellation, marked with the queen’s sign.
He looked at Aranloth on the stretcher. His face was gray, and he was near death. The crows flapped raucously in the trees. Taingern was somber and distant.
Taingern. He was a man who had been here before, and he had an idea of what to expect, assuming that anything at all would happen. Gilhain had been here himself; there were certain rituals involved in the coronation of a king, and though that was long ago he remembered it well. Yet the queen had never appeared to him. But she had appeared to Brand and Taingern, had summoned their help to thwart a sorcerer who would rob her tomb. Would she appear now? Was there merit to Arell’s wild scheme? Was there truth in the dim legend that had come down from his forefathers that Carnhaina, even in death, guarded the city and that she would return in its darkest hour? He would soon find out, but what he knew of her, what he had learned from Brand, made him wonder if he wanted her to appear at all.
He steeled himself. He must do this for Aranloth’s sake. And for Cardoroth as well, whatever his personal fears.
“It’s time,” Aurellin whispered in his ear.
Gilhain stirred. He saw that Arell was looking at him. The stretcher was laid out next to the sarcophagus. The Durlin had stepped away.
Gilhain walked forward. He gave a sign and Taingern used a metal bar to lever, ever so carefully, the stone lid off the casket.
Stone grinded on stone. The crows flapped and cawed, some taking clumsily to the air to circle the tower.
It seemed to take forever, but eventually Taingern was done and the lid was moved half off. There he stopped, and the king noted that the Durlin did not look inside.
Gilhain hesitated, and Arell came to his side. She must have sensed what he would keep hidden. “There’s no other way,” she said.
He nodded and suppressed his fear. That he could overcome, but the thought that Carnhaina may hold him responsible for the looming fall of her city was something that he could not suppress. And well she might hold him so, and such a rebuke might break him.
He drew the knife. Her knife. The blade that had come down through long generations to him.
He stepped closer to the sarcophagus. The breeze died, and the crows grew still. Stars glittered overhead with a cold light. He looked over the stone edge and gazed within.
He saw bones; pale in the starlight, broken and fragmented. The flesh of the queen’s body, laid to rest in antiquity, had decayed to dust. The skull, white and stark, glared back at him; under its dislodged jaw rested a torc, its twisted gold gleaming bright. Jewels and coins and rings and treasures of a lost age winked at him, colder than the stars.
“Here me,” Gilhain said. His voice was a croak, and the words seemed empty high up at the top of the tower, almost as though the dark night all around swallowed them.
“Here me!” he said, suddenly loud. “I, Gilhain, King of Cardoroth, have come. I, who am descended from thy line, seek audience. I, Gilhain, summon thee!”
With a deft move he held up the palm of his left hand and sliced with the blade in his right. He did it quickly, else he knew he would have trouble to do it at all.
He felt nothing, but the blade was sharp and in a moment his bright blood flew. It spattered over the bones and the skull. Then the pain began. It stung, and then it ached, and then it sent a stabbing pain through him. He ignored it.
“Here me, Carnhaina! Here me, my Queen! I summon thee. Blood calls to blood. Come, for Cardoroth needs you. Here me, and come!”
He ceased speaking. It was deathly quiet. Nothing happened. The pain in his palm grew. It throbbed. He felt it like a creeping thing that gripped his hand and squeezed, and then it moved up his arm and to his whole body until he trembled in agony.
The crows in the park now clamored madly, and the cold breeze fluttered to life once more. The dust at the bottom of the sarcophagus, that once had been living flesh, seethed. An ethereal shape formed and rose in a swirl of color and Gilhain and Arell stumbled back.
The vision of a woman stood tall and stately before them. She gazed at those atop the tower, her eyes terrible and stern. They were blue, a deep and cold shade that Gilhain had never seen before, but her skin was pale and freckled, and her unbound hair shone like spilled blood. Wild curls, thick and lustrous, ran down the length of her back and shimmered at the touch of the night-dark air.
She was a massive figure, heavy-boned, thick-limbed and large-jawed. The gold torc he had seen in the sarcophagus gleamed brilliantly about her neck, and about her body was cast a cloak of many colors. In her right hand she grasped an iron-headed spear as though ready to strike.
Her cold stare bored into Gilhain. “Who dares wake me?”
Gilhain bowed. As king, he bowed to none, but he could not help himself, such was the awe that mantled her.
“I, Gilhain, King of Cardoroth, Lord of the Camar, Ruler of the North—”
“Halt!” the queen commanded. “I know you and have heard those titles before. Once I bore them, and others beside. But when you are dust you will learn how empty they are. Speak! Why have you dared to disturb me?”
Gilhain grew in confidence. He had not summoned her, he had not the power. But she had come anyway, and she sought to hide the fact that it had been willingly. Thus he believed that it was possible that she might help.
“Cardoroth is in great need. A host besieges us—”
“This I know. I am dead, but I am not stupid.”
Gilhain was unprepared for this. That Carnhaina had been a difficult woman in life, he knew. But how to deal with her, how to deal with a long-dead spirit and try to negotiate her help, was beyond even his wide experience. Still, he straightened and spoke with directness.
“The city will fall. Elugs we can, perhaps, withstand. But not sorcerers. Lòhrens we have on the walls, but the greatest of them lies dying beside you. His spirit is sped from his body, and I would have you call him back. Without his aid, Cardoroth is lost.”
Carnhaina did not look at Aranloth. She knew he was there. She knew why they had come. She knew each of them atop the tower and read their innermost hearts. She exchanged a brief look with Taingern, and a smile flashed from her eyes, and then in an instant she was stern again.
Her glance fell on Gilhain once more and he shivered.
“Plans rarely run true,” she said. “You see the death of Aranloth as your greatest problem, but what if I told you that Brand has obtained the second half of Shurilgar’s staff? What if I told you that he has not destroyed it, and now the Shadow comes for him? All now stands in jeopardy, and even if Aranloth lived he could not help the greater cause.”
That hit Gilhain as a blow, but he did not hesitate to answer.
“Maybe so, yet still could he help Cardoroth, and I would have it so!”
She raised an eyebrow at him, and he did not think she was dissatisfied with his answer. For the first time she looked at the lòhren, and her face was unreadable.
Surprisingly, it was Arell who spoke. “Why hasn’t Brand destroyed the staff? He wouldn’t betray us, so there’s some reason you haven’t said.”
The queen’s glance fell on the healer, but Arell returned the cool gaze without flinching.
“He seeks now to save a soul. One soul while a city of people is on the brink. Once, I would have called such an act wrong. Now, I do not know. But I will tell you this – he seeks to save the soul of a girl. He travels with her. Does that upset you?”
Arell did not answer, and Carnhaina spoke into the silence.
“Yes it does. You see much, but I see more. You cannot hide your thoughts from me. You would be with him in her stead. And truly, that might be better for Alithoras. But not even the dead see all ends.”
Carnhaina dropped her gaze down to the stretcher and looked at Aranloth again. The breeze gusted and flared her hair in a shimmer of red, but the queen gave no sign that she felt it.
“Have you considered,” she said, turning back to Gilhain, “that of all who ever lived, Aranloth has most need to die – to leave toil and struggle and sorrow beyond endurance behind? Anyway, it is of no matter. I cannot recall him.”
Gilhain was dismayed. It must have showed on his face, for his foremother looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
“This surely you knew? He is too far gone. The blood of kin recalled me, but the lòhren is not related. Blood alone is not enough. It would take more, much more than blood for me to even attempt it.”
A cold feeling settled in the pit of Gilhain’s stomach. Aurellin tensed beside him.
“What would it take?” The words were a dry whisper in his throat.
“When blood does not suffice, a life might avail. But not any life. It must be the sacrifice of a king.”
Gilhain did not move. He had known that was coming, as had Aurellin. And both of them knew what his answer would be. She said nothing and did not try to dissuade him. She merely put her hand in his and squeezed. It was such a small movement, but he felt a world of love in the gesture, and it was all he could do to stifle the tears ready to spring to his eyes.
There was utter silence. He gave Aurellin’s hand a squeeze of his own, and then reluctantly let go and took a pace forward. He did not speak, but turned around the knife he still held in his hand and offered it to Carnhaina, hilt first.
The queen looked at it curiously. And then she laughed. Gilhain wondered if she was not a little mad. She made no move to take the blade, but suddenly she stood taller and the smile left her face. Terrible and stern she seemed. Her fingers gripped tight the spear shaft that she held in her right hand. She looked up at the sky, and Gilhain knew she was looking at Halathgar, that constellation of two bright points whose semblance she must have seen on the knife. He guessed it was his imagination, but it seemed to him that the light of the real stars glittered in her eyes and sparked off the iron-tipped spear.
A moment she stood like that, and he did not move. The Durlin, however, stepped closer. With a glance at Taingern he stilled them. His life, for the possibility of Aranloth’s, was a good exchange.
A wispy cloud dimmed the starlight, and a shadow passed over the top of the tower. He blinked, and when he looked at Carnhaina again he found that she was gazing at him, and her face was unreadable.
“You are a fit king,” she said. “Thus do you pass the test. Put the knife away and watch, for I am Carnhaina, and once the world trembled at my power!”
The queen leaned forward, and she reached through the stone of her sarcophagus as though it were not there. With the tip of the spear she pricked the lòhren’s flesh twice. Two bright spots of blood blossomed on his robes near his heart.
The air grew chill. Cold starlight glittered on the blood-wetted spear-point. It gleamed on Carnhaina’s torc. Her eyes grew fierce, and her meaty hands wrapped around the ash-wood shaft.
“Aranloth!” called the queen. “Here me, lòhren. Here me, priest of the Letharn who are gone. Here me, prince of the race who are no more. Here me, and come!”
Thus she stood, spear in hand, and her eyes flashed with power. Yet Aranloth did not move. The blood darkened on his robes, and the queen hissed.
She raised her arms high, and the star-shadow of the spear leapt from the parapet and into the night. “Come!” she commanded, and even Gilhain, who possessed no magic, felt the force of her will. It thrummed through the tower and reached out, out into the night, out over all the land and into an oblivion so vast that he recoiled from the sense of it.
But Carnhaina did not recoil. She was one with it. Her voice filled it, and her mind encompassed it, seeking the spirit of the one she called.
Gilhain shook his head. This was more than he expected, perhaps even more than what Carnhaina herself had expected. He had been willing to give his life to recall the lòhren, but now he wondered if any force on earth had that power.
17. The Head of the Snake
Brand did not move. But at a signal from Scarface his men drew their weapons and spread out. The situation was clear: the trap of the bandits had failed, but likewise the two travelers were mounted; they could retreat at any time – unless there was some reason they must cross the ford. And obviously they still intended to, otherwise they would already have turned and galloped away.
Scarface smiled, and Brand felt a sudden wave of intense dislike for the man. Yet he pushed it down. There might still be a chance of getting through this without a fight.
“There are only two of us,” Brand said. “But we’re mounted. If it comes to a fight, blood will be shed. And some of it will be yours. That is certain. But if it’s food you want, we’re willing to share what we have. No blood need be spilled. No harm need be done to anyone.”
Scarface smirked at him. “The more you talk, the more I know that you need to cross. I don’t know why. Perhaps there are other men after you, though I had thought the wild lands south of the river empty of people. But all that really matters is that you want to cross, and you will need to pay to do so.”
Brand spoke calmly. “There will be a price paid by you as well. But there—”
“Enough!” Scarface yelled. “Turn and flee. Otherwise, lay down your sword and helm. And leave your horse behind. That way, if you’re so concerned about our welfare, you can avoid bloodshed. We promise to let you walk away, free and with your life, but the girl will stay with us.”
Brand looked at them all coolly. He knew their type, but there was some darker shadow on them. Something drove them, and his glance flicked to the dot that wheeled in the sky. He understood what was happening, and though these bandits were murders, he did not doubt that the will of the witch was also on them. There was no way forward without a fight. Men might die, but he must avoid that at all costs. He must show mercy and use his skill only as a last resort. The eyes of all these men were on him, but so too was the silent gaze of Kareste. He must show her that there were better ways than violence, that the darkness in the hearts of men did not always prevail.
He did not speak to Scarface, but to his men. “This is no way to live,” he said, “to waylay travelers and accost women. If your leader doesn’t see sense, then get yourself a new leader. You can have food for free, but everything else will cost you blood, and some will die. Is it worth it?”
The men did not answer. They looked at him darkly, and once again he felt the will of the witch at work. Without her, without Scarface among them, these men might have seen reason.
“You have your answer,” Scarface said.
Brand had tried reason. Now, he would try threat.
“It’s not too late to back away. Leave now while you can. I can fight. I can fight well, and I wear armor and wield a sword the likes of which you have never seen.”
He drew his blade. The pattern-welded steel shimmered in the bright light, and he heard several gasps. These men would not have seen a Halathrin-forged blade before, but they still recognized it.
“I’m no ordinary warrior. I have skill beyond anything you have encountered. If you come against me I will kill you, each and every one. I do not say this to boast. I say it to save your lives. Stand aside and let us pass, and live another day.”
A few of the men wavered, but not enough. Many looked to Scarface, but he stood there, sure of himself, hatred burning in his eyes. The band made no move to part.
Brand dismounted and handed his reins to Kareste. She looked at him strangely, but said nothing.
The Halathrin blade gleamed in his right hand, and he placed Aranloth’s staff on the ground with his left.
“Even yet, it’s not too late,” he said. “I’ll fight your leader, one on one, and you’ll see that it’s better just to let us pass. There need be no more blood shed than that.”
Scarface laughed. “The only blood to be shed will be your own.”
Brand looked at him coldly. “That’s easy to say, surrounded by your men. Step away from them and face me.”
Brand was trying his hardest to keep things just between him and Scarface. The leader was the head of the snake, and if he was killed the rest would lose heart. But Scarface knew it too. He spat contemptuously, and with an abrupt gesture signaled his men forward.
Kareste spoke for the first time. “Kill them, Brand. You’ve tried everything else, now kill them all.”
The men paid her no heed, but her words made Brand tremble. They were cold. Colder than he had ever heard her speak before, and he knew that he must still try to avoid bloodshed. He must do something special here, but it would come at great risk.
Brand smiled at the men who stepped slowly toward him. They followed their orders, but they were in no hurry. It gave him time to reach into his saddlebag and pull out the diamond Gilhain had given him. He casually dropped it on the ground at his feet. It shone and sparkled, and the men stood still, their shocked silence absolute.
But Kareste was not so quiet. A gasp escaped her lips, for she had travelled far with him and never knew that he carried such a great treasure.
Now was the moment to act, and Brand timed it to perfection. He waited for the nearest man to blink before he moved. It was the smallest of advantages, so small that an ordinary warrior could not make it work for him. But he was Brand of the Duthenor, and his skill had been honed since childhood and ripened by his service as bodyguard to a much-threatened king.
One moment he stood there, the sword held loosely in his hand, and the next he sprang forward and bridged the gap quicker than the thought or reflex of his opponent. He could have killed him before the man even realized what was happening, but he did not. Instead, he struck with the flat of his blade, cracking it into the other man’s hand. Bones broke, and the bandit’s rusty sword fell from his shattered hand as he fell backward.
