A Spell of Swords, page 3
Brand watched, and a sense of unease swept over him. What was wrong? He cast his mind back over what had led to this point. There was no doubting the horse. He knew it by its looks and also by its tracks. Likewise, there was no doubt that Captain Caldor was its owner. So he must be the traitor. But what if he weren’t? What if somebody else had ridden the horse that night?
Suddenly, he knew what was disturbing him. The traitor had spoken to the elugs and then, when the bag of gold was thrown to him he caught it with speed and dexterity. Caldor had never moved like that in his life! Who then was the traitor? It had to be one of the captains, for only they wore the crimson cloak. But which one?
Brand remembered what had happened on the battlements yesterday. He closed his eyes and pictured the long spear snaking through the air and the speed and skill of Gaspur as his hand flicked out and swatted it aside. Then he remembered the loud sniff of the traitor and the scene in the room with the king and his councilors came back to him. Gaspur had been suffering from a cold!
Brand suddenly stood, and his chair fell back behind him. He turned to the king. “My Lord, forgive me! I’ve been a fool. My instincts told me the traitor wasn’t Caldor, and I should’ve listened. There’s no time to tell you how I made the mistake, but Caldor’s innocent. The traitor is Gaspur! We shouldn’t be here but at the South Gate. Fire and blood! I hope it’s not too late!”
Thunder in the Streets
Brand rushed to the stables. He realized he left turmoil in his wake, but now he knew where he had to go. The others would follow as they could. First, he must find a horse. The fastest he knew was Caldor’s black stallion: the same one Gaspur must have ridden so as not to be recognized on his treacherous errand.
Brand went to his stall but did not waste time saddling him. He whispered in his ear, stroked his long sleek neck and was flashing out the door just as the others came into the stables. He left them behind: lòhren, king and soldiers all.
“To the South Gate or the city is lost!” he yelled.
He flew through the city as though the horse was winged. The clatter of hooves on cobbles thundered up the long streets between tall buildings, and sparks flew from the iron-shod hooves. People were woken from their sleep, but by the time their senses cleared the horse had passed, and all that was left was a distant rattle like the remnants of a storm in the far hills.
Brand raced on and fear rode with him. Was he too late? Would he reach the gate only to see that the elugs had already taken it? If so, he would sell his life dearly somewhere on the red streets of the city.
The black stallion galloped like the wind, and Brand knew he had made the right choice. The horse had heart! His sides were flecked with foam, and his mouth was wide open, his great lungs straining for air. Up hills, down hills, turning through twisted streets he sped through the sleeping city and then finally came to the gate.
What he saw as he swung down and drew his sword was something to bring dread to all who lived in the city. Six watchmen lay slumped on the ground, drugged or poisoned. Gaspur was putting his shoulder to the right half of the gate and that side was swinging open. The left remained locked and bolted into the ground by a black iron rod as thick as a man’s leg. Teeming behind were scores of elugs.
As Brand came up Gaspur turned around, but not soon enough. Brand felled him with a blow to the side of his helmet with the hilt of his sword, and he fell to the ground with a heavy thump. But it was too late. Some of the elugs were now pulling the gate open while others poured through.
Brand braced his legs and swung. His sword cut the air like the claws of a wild beast brought to bay, delivering death with each strike. Elugs died as they stood, unable to spread out because of the warrior blocking their way. He fought them two to one, but as he slew them another would madly leap into place. He was cut on the arms and legs, and blood streamed down his limbs. His helm was knocked off by a mighty blow that sent him crashing to his knees, but he stood again without a backward step and dealt death once more.
The elugs pressed harder. They seemed numberless and were filled with the glee of bloodlust and fired by the knowledge the city they hated was within their grasp.
One man could not stop them. Not for long, but each second that Brand held them up was a chance for help to arrive. His sight was narrowed by the vicious blow that dislodged his helm. His arms were growing heavy as lead, and he was dizzy and barely able to see the elugs coming against him.
The end was near when the elugs made way for one of their champions. He was taller and bigger than the others, holding a great black mace in one hand and a short dagger in the other. His muscles shifted beneath his tunic like ocean waves rolling to the shore. The huge mace was lifted and came swinging down at Brand’s head with enough force to flatten a mountain.
Brand did not try to block the blow. The mace was too heavy, and the strength of the elug too much. Nor could he move back to avoid the stroke for to do so would open a gap through which his opponents would stream. He did the only thing he could. Stepping forward he shouldered his attacker. He took a blow to his head but knew it was the handle of the mace rather than the deadly end. He felt his own impact against the elug, and then they clinched each other in a mighty struggle. He felt the dagger stab against his side, but his chain mail protected him.
The elug’s arm reached lower, the dagger seeking a spot near his thigh to drain the blood from one of the main arteries. Brand dropped his sword, which was useless at such close quarters. With both hands he gripped the elug, and then his opponent took a step backwards and lost balance. Brand took his chance and strained every muscle. He picked the elug up, his enemy still seeking to stab him, but before he found a vulnerable spot Brand heaved and used the last of his strength to throw his opponent. The elug measured his length through the air and crashed into his companions. They went down but came up howling for blood.
Even as they recovered Brand bent down and snatched up his sword once more. He braced his legs for the final charge, but it never came. All about him were the shouts of men and the rattle of hooves. The elugs scattered as archers began to shower them with arrows, and the gate was closed.
Brand of the Duthenor
Brand turned and leaned on his sword. With dim vision he saw Aranloth and the king getting down from their horses. Gaspur had been dragged to the side of the gate and was now conscious again. Two soldiers pinned his arms behind his back.
Brand bowed on wobbly legs to the king. “My Lord: that was how the Duthenor fight!”
The wolfish eyes of the king studied the piled bodies of elugs about the gate, and his expression held a hint of awe.
“Indeed,” he said slowly, “if we had more Duthenor like you we could purge the northern mountains of elugs. But you have rid us of enough foes for one day. You have saved the kingdom by your own hand. Speak, and I will give you any gift in my power.”
Brand laughed. “That’s easy, my Lord. One day I hope to go home and right the wrongs inflicted on my people. Until that time I ask only for this – the black stallion but for whose great heart the city would have been destroyed and a place among your soldiers until I return to the Duthenor. And,” he continued after a sideways glance at Gaspur, “as you now need a new captain, I offer my services.”
The king laughed. “Many would have asked for more, but you ask enough! I’m sure I can offer Caldor sufficient money to give you the horse, and you have a place among the soldiers as long as you wish. As for the captaincy, I would like to do so, but there are many men who have served me for years and sworn their loyalty to me before you were born. I cannot lightly set that aside and promote you above them.”
The king glanced at the lòhren. “What is your counsel on this, Aranloth? It seems, as ever, that your wisdom runs deep. It was through you that Brand was allowed to serve, and that has turned out for the best.”
Aranloth considered before answering. “My Lord, there is much in the future that is hidden to me, but I see this. Cardoroth is in great peril. This has not been the first attempt on the city, nor will it be the last. Danger and treachery are afoot. Men have sworn loyalty to you; men such as Gaspur. But Brand has proven it with his actions. Nay, he has proven it with the very lifeblood flowing from his veins! He will be of great service to you, and the men will follow him. He has luck, and he will have their respect after tonight. Who else but one of the wild Duthenor could have held off so many elugs?”
“So be it then,” the king said solemnly. “Brand of the Duthenor, I name you a captain in Cardoroth’s army.”
Then heedless of the blood splattered over Brand, he embraced him. The soldiers cheered, and through the dizzy mist sweeping over him, Brand felt a wave of euphoria.
2. King’s Reward
Brand took a deep breath and entered the room.
It was dim in the king’s chamber. Heavy drapes hung over the windows. They blotted out the world and expunged its light. Beyond the embroidered hangings and densely plastered walls, people laughed, danced, ran, shouted and bustled through their everyday lives. Inside, grief held sway: heads sagged, speech was hushed, and eyes gazed blankly. Even the white-smocked healers, bearded old men attended by young assistants, remained quiet and respectful – or sullen in defeat.
Aranloth sat on a cushioned chair beside the king’s bed. His eyes were half-closed and his shoulders slumped. The pale oaken staff that signaled his profession leaned through the crook of an arm. He muttered elusive words in a foreign tongue. Words of magic.
Brand frowned. Something was amiss. No spell could recall the king’s spirit. Why did the lòhren expend his power?
The sharp scent of healing concoctions crowded the air: frankincense, wild-harvested honey, myrrh and cedar wood. Brand recognized them and many others, but it was the clean fragrance of the cedar that quickened memory to life. His mind flew back to childhood, to the high limestone hills of his homeland during crisp autumn days. It woke yearnings in him: for his own people, for his old life that was lost, for a simpler way of living that did not involve his sword.
His blade was at the king’s service though. Gilhain had won his loyalty by trusting him, a stranger to the city of Cardoroth, when the less charitable offered nothing but disdain. The king had given him a chance as a soldier and later promoted him to captain. The years might grow old, but Brand would never forget. He looked at him now, shrouded by opulent bedclothes, his eyes closed, his skin gray, and felt helpless. Bravery and skill at arms were useless. For the first time he wished to be more than a warrior.
The queen left the side of her dark-haired granddaughter, who wept quietly, and approached him. Though grief marked her face, she was composed and veiled her gaze. Yet he glimpsed a flicker of rage.
He had heard not an hour since of King Gilhain's passing. Rumor hurried through the city: the queen had sworn to identify and execute the assassin who had poisoned him. Nothing would stop her.
Brand bowed. When he lifted his head, she bent her gaze upon him, and he felt the force of her iron-like will.
“You have heard of the king’s death?”
“Yes,” he said. She had summoned him to this room. Unexpectedly. The less he spoke, the sooner she would reveal why.
Her scrutiny of him did not waver. “It is not true.”
He glanced at Gilhain. The king was still. Nor was there any sign of breathing. His skin was gray, his lips blue. Brand had seen slain men, more often than he wished to remember, and knew the king was dead. And yet … and yet what did he know of poisons? Certainly, Aranloth worked to a purpose.
Hope kindled in his eyes, and there was a catch in his voice.
“The lòhren keeps him alive?”
She gave a slight nod. “Yes. But only just. The healers have failed – they have no cure for the poison that ravages his body.”
Even as she spoke Brand saw the king spasm.
“How long can Aranloth do this?”
The queen turned her gaze toward the lòhren. There was something in her expression that Brand could not read. Gratitude? Respect? Awe?
She looked back. “You can see how greatly it taxes him. The king yet lives, but will pass before midnight.”
Her eyes hardened with determination, and Brand knew she would now reveal the reason for his summons.
“I misspoke, before,” she said. “The healers have no remedy. Except Barathar.”
She beckoned over a bearded old man. He in turn made a curt gesture to a young woman. Brand sensed the healer’s heavy-lidded gaze dismiss him as of little consequence. The woman stood a pace behind her master, eyes downcast.
“Barathar and Arell have encountered this poison before. He understands its nature … and knows its remedy. There is a plant that grows near Lake Alithorin. It favors cliff sides.” The queen’s voice wavered. “It alone can save the king.”
The healer brushed pale fingers, each glinting with gold rings, down his smock. He looked at all of them in turn with dark eyes.
“It’s known to the wise as karanthrot.”
Brand did not like him. In his experience, those who were keen to impress others with their knowledge knew the least. He ignored his dislike and thought quickly. Lake Alithorin was not far away, and there remained a chance to save Gilhain. Nothing accounted for his unexpected summoning though. He waited.
The queen continued. “I trust you, Brand. You’ve proven your loyalty. I want you to go with Arell and fetch the plant.”
Brand considered the situation. He understood why Arell must go; someone had to identify the karanthrot, and the old man was too frail for a rigorous journey. There was more, though.
“Why not send a troop? If something went wrong … there would be others to finish the mission.”
The queen nodded. “Yes. That was my initial thought, too. But in this case, secrecy is better.”
She pursed her lips and considered her next words carefully. “Cardoroth, and the king, have many enemies. But only a member of our household could have poisoned him.”
That was likely enough. Brand knew something of assassins.
The queen paused and clasped her hands together.
“That’s why I started the rumor of the king’s death. Let them think they succeeded! It will give you a better chance. If I sent a troop, word would spread rapidly, and they might contrive another attempt on his life. More likely, they would try to kill Arell. Even a company of soldiers couldn't protect her from a far off archer or a knife hurled from the crowd.”
Brand understood. The king’s life depended on Arell … and her safety on him. The queen’s strategy was sound, yet they all knew that his summoning might have been marked. The girl, dressed in well-worn shoes and a plain linen dress, stood in the shadow of her master. She was quiet and meek as the people of Cardoroth expected of a girl, but he liked that she showed no fear.
He glanced one last time at Gilhain, and then bowed.
“I’ll return with karanthrot – or die trying.”
He strode from the chamber and Arell followed. Speed was essential. Not only for the king, but to preempt any attempt to waylay them. The assassin need not know the exact purpose of Brand's summons; his swift departure with a healer’s assistant was enough to draw suspicion.
Lake Alithorin
Within the hour they passed through the city gate. He rode his favorite black stallion, and Arell was mounted on a sorrel mare. She struck purposefully for the location where she expected to find the karanthrot.
They soon saw the lake. It glittered in the light of late morning, though fog gathered along its shores and reached long arms into the surrounding pine forests. Its other side lay many leagues beyond his vision.
He looked back and studied Cardoroth. It was far larger than the villages of his homeland. Its encircling wall, buildings, and even the cobbles of its streets were of a dark stone. He was more used to thatched huts, but the land of his youth was sweet, and his heart suddenly ached for it.
He thought about his companion as they approached the lake. Arell spoke seldom but seemed calm and assured. She could not be more different from her master, a pompous man who appeared the type to cover ignorance with unnecessary displays of knowledge.
In the villages of his homeland girls learned to fight, plough fields, hunt, heal or do whatever necessity demanded. In Cardoroth, the people shunned female healers as witches and generally expected little of their women except those of noble birth, such as the queen. Arell probably had to endure Barathar to eke out a living, at least in her chosen profession. Judging by her threadbare clothes, he paid her little. It went against Brand’s grain, but he was in no position to change it. Trying would only reinforce that he was a foreigner and get him into trouble. It might even ensure he never received a promotion.
The road dwindled to a sandy trail that snaked beneath tall pines. It grew dark. The air, humid and still, stank of rot. Orange fungus flowered in lush growths on fallen timber, and long fingers of gray-green moss trailed from overhead branches. They slowed. In the murk of the pinewood it felt like hostile eyes watched their every move.
Tendrils of mist reached phantom-like through the trees. The lake was close, and Arell found a steep path down a rock-strewn bank. At its bottom the trees gave way to a narrow track.
They rode northward, the sandy lakeshore on their left, and the steepening bank on their right. It soon became a cliff. The rock-face beetled above: craggy, slick with moisture, and its high top hidden by mist.
Arell ran her sharp gaze over it. “Look for something red.”
Brand smiled to himself. He liked her no-nonsense attitude and that she knew exactly what she was doing.
He searched hard and long, but she spotted the karanthrot first. Her long arm shot out and pointed.
“There!”
Brand saw it, a little clump of green and red nestled within a crack in the rocks. It was only thirty feet above them, but a difficult climb. He dismounted, handed the reins to Arell, and studied the cliff.
