Defiant Swords (Durlindrath #2), page 7
“Out!” Arell said with intense force, but still quietly. “I didn’t bring him here so that you could squint at him and pretend you had an idea of what was going on. Out!”
Barok turned. He gave her his own look. It was one of superiority. His pale hands, nearly as white as the smock he wore, were clasped in front of him. He peered down at her, eyes cold as they studied her from above his long beard. It was a look that she had seen him use on troublesome patients, but it had no effect on her.
“Out!” she repeated.
“Don’t you think someone of Aranloth’s stature deserves treatment from one of Cardoroth’s finest healers?” He looked at her, leaving no doubt in his expression that he did not consider her worthy of the task.
Arell had had enough. “The king placed him in my care, and I’ll do what can be done.” She spoke quietly, her voice filled with icy determination, and it carried an edge of threat. “Speak with the king – if you dare interrupt him while the city teeters on the edge of destruction. If he places Aranloth in your care, so be it. But while we argue, the lòhren’s life slips away. Now stand aside, for I’ll not tolerate any further delay. Don’t interrupt me again except at the king’s word.”
She made to move past him, but Barok blocked her path.
“I’m in charge here. I’ll treat the lòhren. I don’t know what the king said, but there are ways of making such pronouncements officially, and I’ve seen no paperwork nor heard from any messenger. You can go and get leave from the king to treat the lòhren. Until then, I’ll do what needs doing.”
Arell wanted to slap him, but that would not be enough. He was too thick headed for that to work, and time was running out. Instead, she made one swift move and drew a knife from her boot.
The blade gleamed wickedly between them, and she would use it if she had to. If Aranloth died, the city would fall.
Barok looked at her in astonishment, but what he was going to say, she would never know.
Taingern strode past her and before Barok even realized what was happening the Durlin had grabbed him in a headlock and manhandled him out the door. When they were in the corridor, he threw him to the floor.
“Fool!” he said. “That’s your message from the king. “And if you step inside this room again, I’ll kill you. Cardoroth needs the lòhren, but it doesn’t need you.”
The Durlin drew his sword to emphasize the point.
Barok scrambled to his feet. This was more than he expected, more even than Arell expected; but it proved the point that Cardoroth was on the edge.
The healer fled, and his dignity went with him, but Arell was already moving to Aranloth as the sound of Barok’s retreat pounded away into the distance. Faintly, she heard him yell when he reached somewhere he considered safe: this is beyond her – the lòhren will die, or worse, she’ll kill him with ineptitude.
She spared Taingern a brief look of thanks as she sheathed her knife.
“Pay him no heed,” the Durlin said. “Not for nothing are you the king’s own healer. Not for nothing did Brand recruit you to train the Durlin. And not for nothing does Brand speak highly of you.”
She gave a little bow. “May I prove your confidence in me.”
Once more she examined the lòhren. He was no better, and she knew with the certainty of natural instinct and honed skill combined that no art of medicine could bring him back. They needed magic for that, but it seemed not even the lòhrens themselves could achieve such a thing. If it was possible, perhaps only the greatest lòhren of them all knew how, but he lay silent and dying on the bed before her.
She sat and thought. There were medicines that might make his heart beat faster, for it was slow now, so slow as to be pumping blood at half the rate that it should. No wonder that his pulse was hard to take. But those medicines were no cure. They would buy some time, but time for what?
Taingern sat near her. He did not speak, did not ask questions that would interrupt her flow of thought. She appreciated that. He was a thoughtful and kind man, notwithstanding his earlier violence.
But the more she thought the deeper she sunk in a pool of despair. It swallowed her up, drowned her in hopelessness. It was not enough to prolong Aranloth’s life for a day or two. It was not enough!
She stood and looked out the window. The city stretched out before her. Her city, and it would fall. Of that, there was no doubt.
Brand was out there beyond it, somewhere in the vast land of Alithoras. He gave her hope. They must endure; they must survive the enemy for as long as they could to give him the time to do what he must do. And only Aranloth had the power to stem the dark tide of sorcery the elùgroths would throw against them. The other lòhrens would fight, and they would die. Against the might of the enemy they would not stand long without their leader.
She must think. Medicine was of no avail. Perhaps magic would help, but there was no magic in the city except for the lòhrens, and they had admitted they knew of no way to bring Aranloth’s spirit back to his body. But if magic had freed it from the bonds of the flesh, then magic could summon it back. That was only logical. But if not the magic of the lòhrens, then whose?
There were witches in Cardoroth. But they had no real magic, at least so she believed. Their talent lay more in foresight and prophecy. It was too far to go to Lòrenta for more help; Aranloth would be dead before such a journey even began, not to mention that an army barred the way, and the lòhrens left in Lòrenta probably knew no more than the ones here.
Barok’s words haunted her. This was beyond her skill. Aranloth would die. It made her feel no better that he would die no matter who cared for him. The other healers would fuss and meddle. They would draw blood and prescribe herbs and potions. None of it would work.
She had done what could be done. It was a simple thing. She had positioned him on pillows so that he half sat in the bed. That allowed him to breathe a little better. Soon, she might give him a medicine that would make his heart beat faster. But that put strain on it also, and it came with risks. There was nothing else to be done, and she must face defeat.
She looked through the glass window. They were on a lower floor of the palace, but they still had a good view. There were many houses out there. All along the streets were homes where she had healed people. They were everywhere, all the way to the Tower of Halathgar and beyond.
Her mind wandered, and then it focused on the tower. It was distant, but it stood tall and strange. It was a great landmark in the city, the tower of the Witch Queen. The tower of Carnhaina, who had once ruled in Cardoroth. She had power. Power beyond an ordinary lòhren. Power enough to rival Aranloth himself. And there were stories of what the queen had done with that power. Arell had read of them in medical textbooks.
That gave her pause for thought. Carnhaina was a battle queen, not a healer. And yet there was a story of some healing that she had done. A distinct image of the book’s cover came to Arell, and fragments of the story with it.
She bit her lip and looked at Taingern. There was another story, a story that Brand himself had told her of Carnhaina, though she was long dead and become dust.
“The Forgotten Queen,” she whispered. “Carnhaina.”
That was all she said, but Taingern’s face paled. She read fear in his expression, or perhaps awe, and it was confirmation that Brand’s story was true; not that she doubted him, but it was a wild story, a story to frighten even brave men. It was also a story that just now gave her hope. And even if it was a wild hope, desperate and no doubt dangerous, it was still hope.
“Let no one into the room!” she said.
She raced away. The corridors were empty, though there were patients in some of the rooms. She saw no sign of Barok, and it was just as well for him. The knife was still in her boot, and she would use it if he got in her way.
She sped up a flight of stairs, taking them two at a time, and then spun around a corner and flung open a door.
Inside was the library of the healers. She knew each book, though there were hundreds. She had read them all, studied them, committed their knowledge to her memory. Much was false, proven wrong by her own experiments, but much was true and valuable.
She headed straight for the book she sought. It was old. Its cover was black, faded to gray. Gold script covered it, and the sign of Halathgar was there as well, the constellation that the Forgotten Queen had taken for her seal.
Arell raced back. She had an idea, but the book would give her the confirmation that she needed. But even if her memory was correct, the look on Taingern’s face when she mentioned Carnhaina gave her pause for thought. And, given the story Brand had told her, well it might.
12. Blood Calls to Blood
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 or 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.”
13. The Ancient Past
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.
