Defiant Swords (Durlindrath #2) (10 page)

But the enemy dead were not the only ones. Brave soldiers of
Cardoroth had died also – by the hundreds. There were too many to be
taken away all at once, and the dead lay there, their eyes vacant, and in their
exhaustion the defenders who yet lived sat down beside them. At times it was
hard to tell who was alive and who was dead. And though they had just now won a
great victory, it could not go on like this indefinitely. Cardoroth was a big
city, but it could not match the enemy soldier for soldier. They must not take
so many losses in the future.

All the while the wild carnyx horns had been blowing. If
they were eerie before, they were more so now in the sudden silence after the
enemy’s retreat. Now, however, the horns took up a new note. It was only a
subtle difference, but there was in it a hint of victory. And well the army
deserved it; they had fought for it and it was pleasing to see the enemy, a
disorganized mass, heads low, officers barking orders, faces sullen and most of
all – the hateful elug war drums gone quiet.

The enemy host was at its lowest ebb yet. Had he the
numbers, Gilhain would have ordered a sortie, for there was no better time than
now to strike.

He sighed. He did not have the numbers. Instead, he must
simply watch as he enemy regrouped and then came back at them again. But at
least the defenders would have that same time as a respite.

He leaned on his bloody sword, Aurellin standing near. There
was still a fierce look on her face, and after all these years she still
surprised him. There was steel in her; that he had always known, but it was a
thing of the mind and not of the body. At least so he had thought. Yet she had propelled
herself into the fray and wielded her blade with ferocity. She had no great
skill, yet she had killed, and the sight of her fighting beside their king had
lent strength to the defenders.

There was a noise in the silence behind him. Taingern had
returned. His face was grim, though whether because of what he saw atop the
Cardurleth or for news of Aranloth, Gilhain did not know.

“You look tired,” Taingern said.

Gilhain cleaned his sword on a rag. “It’s been a long day.”

Taingern looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry, my King, but it
will be a long night also.”

Gilhain sheathed the blade. “How so?”

“Arell has discovered a way to attempt a healing of
Aranloth.”

“What way is that?”

Taingern’s gaze did not falter. “You won’t like it.”

They were atop the tower, the Tower of Halathgar, the Witch
Queen’s tower, and Gilhain felt uneasy.

The attacking horde had withdrawn to lick its wounds when
dusk fell. Their campfires sprang to light, the vast host gathering in and
enveloping itself in its pain.

They were unnaturally quiet, for their great attack of
sorcery had been foiled – the serpent lay dead, or still dying, and
the great charge of the lethrin had been repulsed. Yet the leadership, both
sorcerers and shazrahads, those strange men from the south, would work through
the night. Tomorrow, the host would attack again. And if their confidence had diminished,
it would grow
again
over time.
In a day, or a week, the enemy would be ravening for blood once more.

But for a time, Gilhain could put that concern aside. For a
few brief hours something else would hold his attention. And though there were
no armies up here at the summit of the tower, though there would be no fighting,
what was about to happen was just as important as any battle
played
out
on
the Cardurleth.
Possibly
more so.

It was dark. Yet the crows in the trees croaked and flapped
their wings. Perhaps the men holding flaming torches disturbed them. Perhaps it
was something else.

Gilhain looked out over the parapet. He could see little of
the park where the trees grew; shadows lay thick over it like drifts of black
fog. Like fog, the shadows moved too. Or something within
them
did, but it was too far away and too dark to see.

Further away he saw the torch-lit city, for here at the top
of this tower he was high, high enough to feel a cool breeze blowing against
the cold sweat that slicked the skin of his face. There was no breeze down
below.

He
heard
a muffled curse. “Careful,”
Arell said to the Durlin who carried Aranloth’s stretcher.

It had been hard work to get the stretcher all the way up
the stairs, for there were few people here. Gilhain wanted it that way, and all
that he allowed were the Durlin, himself, Aurellin and of course Arell. They
all spoke in hushed tones. Some knew what was to be attempted up here, but even
those who
did
not sensed that
something strange and unusual was in the air.

Gilhain smiled to himself. Strange and unusual did not even
begin to cover it. Carnhaina, better known as the Witch Queen, sometimes called
the Forgotten Queen, was his foremother. Near on a thousand years had passed
since her rule of Cardoroth, and though the general population had forgotten
her except for a few strange stories and ballads that were told late at night
in inns, his family had not. She was venerated by all of his line, and every subsequent
king or queen of Cardoroth had lived in her shadow, for she had achieved great
things. And now, more than ever, he felt unworthy of his heritage, for it
seemed likely enough that the city would fall despite his best efforts. And it
was not remembered that Carnhaina was forgiving.

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.