Defiant Swords (Durlindrath #2), page 13
He felt alive, and he intended to stay that way.
The Durlin never wore any special ornament or insignia, but for this occasion Aranloth had tied about his waist a cloth belt in the colors of the king, and the Eagle of Cardoroth was blazoned upon it. It felt strange to wear it, for none but the king were allowed to bear that emblem on their person, and even Aranloth, who had watched him all the while with tired eyes, had given him a strange look at the end.
Hvargil strode to meet him. The small band that had come with the traitor to the wall withdrew. The two men faced each other between the city wall and the dark mass of the elug horde.
“You?” the man who would rule Cardoroth said. “You’re the king’s champion? Why don’t you come back when you’re full grown?”
Shorty grinned at him. “I’m short, my King, he said sarcastically, but I’m not stupid. You’re trying to upset me so that I fight rashly, and that means that you’re scared. And well should you be, for you know nothing of me, but I know all about you.”
“Well, I know this much. You’ve learned a few Durlin tricks, for just now you’re trying to insinuate doubt into my mind. But enough of these games. Let our blades speak.”
Hvargil donned his helm that he had carried under his arm. It looked to Shorty much like Brand’s, only it was perhaps more beautiful, for the wings on it flicked back like a graceful hawk in flight. But the horns on Brand’s spoke of mad battle and a will of adamantine determination that would never falter.
And then Hvargil drew his sword with a flourish. It nearly seemed to leap from the sheath of its own accord, and the pattern-welded blade shimmered and caught the light from jewels and precious stones on the hilt and threw it into the air like a mist of light. Shorty had a sudden sense of what it would be like to face Brand in battle, and it was not a good feeling.
But it was not Brand before him. It was an enemy. An enemy of Cardoroth, and someone that Shorty despised. He held his own grudge against this man, and he would now seek to repay him for past treachery. Justice called for no less.
And he who stood before him did not have Brand’s quiet but strong presence. Nor was the sword the same. Brand’s was plainer, for this was covered in strange runes of victory. Shorty had seen their like before, though he could not remember where. But he realized that the runes were an addition made well after the sword’s ancient forging, and probably ordered by Hvargil himself. No, he was not like Brand at all.
Shorty donned his own helm. It was unadorned, but of good quality. Yet no helm would protect him from a full-blooded blow of a Halathrin blade. Skill alone would see him through this situation, if anything could, and not armor.
He drew his sword. It did not ring as it came from the sheath. It did not glitter as though cold flame burned inside it. It was not pattern-welded nor marked by runes of power. Yet it was well made, and he kept it sharp. And though it had none of the long history of a Halathrin blade that was forged before the Camar migrated west, it had a history for him, for he had used it since he was little more than a boy, and before that it had belonged to his father. There were thousands like it in the city, but it was his, and he knew the feel of it in his hands with surpassing familiarity.
Hvargil gave the customary bow before a duel. He bent at the waist, but not low, and the point of his sword touched the ground. That was an insult, and though Shorty was not of the nobility he knew it. A dirty blade was more likely to lead to infection, and it was a mark of disrespect.
Shorty gave his own bow. He kept the point of his sword low, but it did not touch the ground. He bowed his head also, as was the custom. But he dropped it a little lower than he was supposed to, and he squeezed his eyes into slits.
Hvargil did not surprise him. The man-who-would-be-king straightened and flicked dirt up and into Shorty’s face. It was intended to blind him, and so it might have if not for his precautions.
Shorty kept his head low and sunk into a fighting crouch. The dirt flew about his face and some pebbles rang against his helm, but it did not affect him.
Hvargil was poised to attack, but he saw that his trick was of no avail and did not move in.
“A low ploy,” Shorty said. “But further proof that you’re scared. If you really believed in your superiority you wouldn’t bother with the like.”
Hvargil grunted. “And nor would you with your continued, but nevertheless futile, efforts to seed doubt into my mind.”
They began to circle each other. Hvargil moved with grace and balance. Shorty stayed lower and moved less.
Hvargil struck the first blow. His blade flicked out, and it was met by Shorty’s. Steel on steel rang through the air like the one-off peal of a small bell. And then they separated once more. It was nothing more than a first test, and yet they both learned much from that single touch.
Shorty knew Hvargil had a reputation as a great fighter. Yet still a shiver of fear ran through him. He now knew that reputation was well founded, for his opponent was incredibly quick and also strong. It was not a common combination. And to make matters worse, Hvargil had the greater reach. Yet Shorty was used to fighting taller men, and he had his ways to deal with that. He began to wonder if they would be enough though.
Gilhain leaned on the battlement, his hands gripping tight the stone. “Lornach is outmatched,” he whispered.
Taingern answered him. “That man has been outmatched all his life, but he’s still alive. His is a heart that does not give up.”
Aranloth did not speak, and Gilhain turned to him for an opinion.
“What do you think?”
A long while the lòhren took to answer and it seemed as though a great weariness was on him, or perhaps he was in some sort of trance. But at length he replied.
“I do not see what you see. I perceive from afar the elùgroths. They sit together, their minds bent upon the battle. They are near the elug war drums. Those drums beat. Sorcery joins the sound, twines with it, yet it is subtle and I do not see its purpose. I see Hvargil, full of pride, but also of doubt. He has cast all he has in a desperate gamble by joining the elùgroths and making this challenge. He is desperate and deadly dangerous. Lornach is fearful. But he knows in his bones that live or die this fight buys time, if nothing else. It buys time for Brand, and every hour that we survive is another hour in which Brand may yet prevail. And he senses something else. He senses it in the air, even as do I. Sorcery.”
Shorty felt sweat run down his back. His arms ached and his wrists were sore. But he was untouched by his opponent’s blade. And yet Hvargil was also untouched. They circled and fought and delivered blows and retreated. All to no advantage. Not yet. But it could not go on like this. One of them must soon land a blow.
His hands were clammy. He had a sense of impending doom, and that was not like him at all. But he fought on, the sound of steel on steel ringing through the air and the thrum of the blows running up his arm.
Suddenly, he saw a gap in Hvargil’s defense. He made to strike, but even as his weight shifted he heard the war drums of the elugs change beat and it seemed as though the very earth beneath his feet buckled.
Instead of striking a blow he staggered sideways, struggling to keep upright. Hvargil had no such problem. His eyes gleamed within the shadow of the helm and he seized his opportunity to attack.
The Halathrin blade darted like a tongue of lightening. Shorty saw it come. He tried to withdraw, but he merely stumbled further, and yet it was that which saved him. For instead of taking the blow to his neck, the glittering edge missed that death mark. Yet still it caught him a glancing blow on the arm.
He leapt back. The sword fell from his grip, and red blood dripped down his fingers. Pain stung him, sharp and deep.
Shorty stepped further away from his opponent. He drew his knife, but he knew that he was a dead man. Not from his wounded arm: that would need many stiches, but from lack of a real weapon. Hvargil stood between him and his sword, and the sword was his only chance at life.
There was only one thing that he could try. He must somehow distract his opponent and retrieve his weapon. But Hvargil looked at him with cold, unblinking eyes. He was not a man to give such chances, and he stalked forward now, confident and poised.
Shorty saw no reason to draw things out. He flung the last weapon he had. The knife spun through the air. It was no defense against a sword, but in this way he might be able to use it to throw his opponent off balance for just long enough to get passed him and reach his blade.
Hvargil saw the blade coming. Whether his reflexes were excellent, or he guessed the move in advance, Shorty did not know. But his enemy merely lowered his head and the knife struck sparks off the helm and clattered away. Hvargil barely moved, and there was not one chance in a thousand of getting past him. Shorty did not even try.
“Ready to die, little man?” Hvargil asked.
Aranloth stiffened. “Too late I understand the foul sorcery,” he said.
“Can you help him with lòhrengai?” Gilhain asked.
“No,” the lòhren answered. “It takes time to do something like what the sorcerers did, and anything more obvious would only work against us in the end. Lornach is on his own.”
“Then he is doomed,” Gilhain said. “A weaponless man cannot beat the likes of Hvargil.”
Taingern, standing close but not taking his eyes off the battle, spoke.
“A Durlin is never weaponless,” he said.
Shorty looked for some sort of an opening, for anything. But Hvargil gave him nothing. Worse, he had decided out of spite to move backward and pick up Shorty’s own sword. That was his best opportunity to attack, but Hvargil was waiting for him to do it. Shorty could feel his expectation, and let the moment pass because of it.
Hvargil flung the blade far behind him. Shorty had the strange feeling that he would never again hold the familiar hilt in his hand, the same hilt that his father had gripped. A slow anger began to burn inside him.
Hvargil advanced. Shorty retreated. It occurred to him that he could run back to the gate, but that was not in him. He could also beg for mercy, but that was not in him either. Nor did he think it would be granted. Hvargil did not understand the concept of mercy.
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.
22. We Hunt
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.
