Defiant Swords (Durlindrath #2) (11 page)

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.

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.

Brand did not hesitate. He wheeled among the outlaws,
spinning and leaping. The sword flashed, but it never drew blood. At times he struck
with a fist into an opponent’s neck, sending them to the ground gasping for
air. At other times he kicked, low and swift, striking at groin or knee.

Men fell around him. One toppled and groaned after another
kick, and Brand knew that
man
would
never father children. Swords flashed at him, but they only cut the air where
he had been. Once, a blade glanced off his helm. There was a ringing noise and
a flash of pale light as though sparks flew, but then he felled the man with a
blow to his temple from the pommel of his Halathrin sword.

Six men were disabled, felled or falling to the ground
before the other six could rally. The initial surprise of Brand’s attack was
gone, and now the bandits tried to circle him.

For the first time, steel rang on steel as he parried blows.
He slipped among them, swifter than they, but one blade against many. Yet the
Halathrin blade was of a quality so far beyond the others that when it struck
them, they shattered. Steel shards flew. Daggers were drawn, and they drove through
the air, but Brand’s mail shirt protected him.

Yet still he began to bleed. Several times he had been cut
on wrist and arm. But several more men lay on the ground, knocked out by the
pommel of Brand’s sword. Momentum was with him, and fear pumped through the
remaining bandits who still stood upright. They backed away.

Brand new he must now make a choice. Scarface, never having
joined in the fight, backed away with his men. But if he was left alone, left
free to continue as he had started, other travelers, less prepared than
Brand
had
been, would die. Brand did not lower his sword. Should he kill Scarface? If he
did, the band would probably fall apart and go their separate ways. But what
effect would
killing
him
have on Kareste? 

But Scarface was not yet done. He tried surprise as Brand
had done. The retreat was only an act, for he drew a dagger and flung it with
all his might. It spun through the air, wheeling and glinting, but it did not
strike its target.

Brand was already moving. The knife whooshed through the
air, but he was a little to its side and moving forward. Before Scarface could
react the Halathrin blade slid into him, drove deep, and then came out the
man’s back.

Scarface tensed. Blood gushed from his mouth and then he
collapsed. Quickly, Brand tried to withdraw his sword, but it did not come out
as easily as it had gone in. Scarface fell dead to the ground. Brand jerked and
twisted his sword free. The others had a moment to attack him during this
vulnerability, but they did not move. Shock marked their faces.

Brand looked down at the man he had killed. He had not
wanted to do it, but he would not have the deaths of innocent travelers on his
conscience. Better the death of a murderer.

Brand glanced at Kareste. She was still mounted, but her sword
was drawn, and it dripped blood. A man lay beneath it, dead also, his limp hand
open
near the great diamond.

Kareste dismounted. She stepped over the body and picked up
the jewel. For a moment she studied it, and then she tossed it to Brand.

He caught it. And his movement frightened the bandits that
still stood, and they fled, hurrying downriver.

“You’re full of surprises,” Kareste said. “And just when I
thought I was getting to know you.” Her eyes glittered as she studied him, but
Brand could not read her expression.

“Time to go,” he said. 

They mounted and rode into the shallow water of the ford.
Behind them several men staggered up, but
they
seemed
frozen
in
place
by awe, and they
made no move to follow.

The horses splashed through the water, and it frothed and
foamed about their legs.
After
a
while
they
clambered up onto the little island in the middle of the river, and then
plunged into the water again.

Eventually, they made the far bank. The road started once
more, a smooth and wide surface, turfed and slightly sloped to run water from
the center to the sides.

They trotted forward. Brand studied the land ahead, and then
the sky. He saw nothing to alarm him. Even the hawk was gone.

As they rode he sensed Kareste’s eyes on him. Probably, she
guessed why he had not killed the men and what he was trying to do.

“You can fight,” she said eventually. “That much I already
knew, but you still managed to surprise
me
anyway.”

Brand shrugged. Most of the people who knew how well he
could fight were dead.

Kareste did not take her eyes off him. “But you should have
killed them – killed them all. I would have.”

Brand did not answer. He rode slightly ahead, and he felt
her eyes burning into his back.

“Come!” commanded Carnhaina, and Arell felt the force of her
will. It lashed her like a whip, so strong was it, yet it was not even directed
at her.

Arell tore her eyes away from the queen. Her concern was for
her patient. Aranloth remained still, yet to her expert gaze he looked different.
There was more color in his skin, at least as best as she could tell by the
shifting
lights of torch and star.
But more than that, she saw the rise and fall of his chest as he
breathed
: faster, deeper, more lifelike than before.

“Come!” commanded Carnhaina, and the spirit of Aranloth
heard her call and followed her voice. Suddenly, he tensed where he lay on the
stretcher; the blood seeped anew from the two
wound
s on
his chest, and his eyes flicked open, wild, uncertain, unknowing
of
where he was or how he got there.

Arell knelt down and put her hand to his hot brow. She
soothed him, and though she saw that he was back from the near-dead, she saw
also that he was weak, terribly weak.

She spared a quick glance at Carnhaina, but the queen was
already fading. The arm that held the spear seemed insubstantial as it slowly
fell. Her eyes were closed. The starlight seemed dim and the torches gutted. In
the flickering air the motes of dust that had formed her figure drifted apart
and settled slowly into the sarcophagus once more.

The great queen was gone, but Aranloth was back. And yet, a
voice, imperious and commanding as always, rang out as though the
very
stone atop the tower spoke:

 
Aranloth is returned, but the hope of Cardoroth, as
always it has done, rests with Brand.
Remember!

Gilhain surveyed the enemy. From the rampart that had
withstood the seething masses of darkness, he looked out into a bright morning.

The enemy remained. Fear remained. The knowledge of likely
defeat remained. And yet there was hope too. For Aranloth, pale and sickly, yet
alive, stood near him. Or rather, he leaned against the stone of the battlement
in view of the enemy.

Aranloth had placed himself there. Without speaking he had
come with the dawn. What his thoughts were, Gilhain did not know, but he knew
this much at least; even in his weakened state the lòhren’s mind was still
sharp. The enemy would see him, and whatever spies the enemy had, whatever
means of gathering news that they relied on, they would have heard of his collapse
and hoped for his death. When the sun had come up, they had all seen that their
hope was cheated.

Gilhain moved to stand beside him. “He’s still out there,
somewhere,” he said.

Aranloth knew that he meant Brand. The lòhren’s tired eyes
looked into his own.

“Do you fear that he has betrayed Cardoroth? That he has
betrayed our trust in him?”

Gilhain slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t believe that.
But I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing and what he’s thinking. If what
Carnhaina said is true,
and
Arell
must
have
told
you
of
it
, he recovered the second half of Shurilgar’s staff, and he
escaped the tombs of the Letharn. Yet the staff is not destroyed, and Cardoroth
is sorely pressed. What if the
sorcerers
commence
another attack? You’re very frail, my old friend.”

Aranloth looked anxious. “There are many chances in the
world, for good or for ill. Something has happened. More is going on than we
know, and I wish I knew what it was. But I know this much at least. I trust
Brand, and I gave him my staff, and I gave him my diadem. Those things are
symbols, but with my trust in him I gave him power also, the power embodied by
those symbols. He now represents the lòhrens, and he must make choices even as
a lòhren, and the fate of Alithoras has become his concern, not just Cardoroth,
no matter how much he loves us.”

Gilhain thought about that. There was evidently more going
on than he knew. He had thought that lending Brand the staff and diadem was
just a practical means of giving him some power to fight off enemies. It
appeared to be more than that though, but in just what way he could not
quite
see.

Aurellin joined their conversation. “Brand is not as
others,” she said. “Whatever he does, he does for us, and perhaps now also for
others
too. But I will continue to trust in him, to hope in
him, as I have done before.”

Her words struck a chord with Gilhain. That was how he felt,
even though after what Carnhaina had said, he should
have
been
riddled
with doubt.

Lornach interrupted his musings. “Look over there,” the Durlin
said.

Gilhain followed his gaze. He saw nothing at first, but
taking his eyes off the closer northward fields and looking in the distance, he
saw what the sharp eyes of the little man had noticed before anyone else: a
dust cloud.

They watched in silence. Soon other men along the wall
noticed it too, but there was nothing anyone could do but wait and continue to
watch. That it was caused by riders was obvious, and a great many of them too,
but who they were and what they were doing was beyond any guess.

The cloud deepened. The riders drew
closer
,
and there was an occasional flash of metal and color. As they approached,
Gilhain estimated their numbers. He took it to be a large group, perhaps a
thousand strong.

“Is it an attack on the enemy?” Lornach asked. “Or
reinforcements for them?”

Gilhain was beginning to understand. “No,” he answered.
“It’s not either of those things. Most especially, it’s not an attack. Look at
the horde. They have set up no defense, moved no troops to face the riders.”

“Then what is it?” Lornach asked. “And what difference can a
mere thousand riders make?”

Gilhain did not answer. Nor did Aranloth speak, though by
the look on his face he had guessed the same answer that Gilhain knew in his
heart.

“It depends on who leads them,” Aurellin said.

Lornach pulled at an earlobe, trying to figure it out. While
he thought, the column drew closer.

“They’re not Azan,” he said. “Nor are the horses the alar
breed of the south. These are northerners, that much is now obvious. But if not
Azan, then who?”

They continued to watch. The elug war drums muttered away,
sending a different message from normal; it was not a battle beat. And this was
proven as the horde opened its ranks and allowed the column through.

The men on the walls were watching also, and this made them
uneasy. It was bad enough that the enemy received reinforcements, however small
the number in the greater scheme of things, but it was
worse
that
they were men, and northerners
also. It was not something that they could comprehend.

There was much movement in the camp below. Messengers were
sent, riders went back and forth, and the horde itself was excited by some news
that rippled through it.

“We could have done without this,” Gilhain said.

Lornach shrugged. “It’s still only a thousand odd men.”

“But look at the horde. They have news to consider,
something different to think about, and likely enough a reason for better hope.
All those things are taking their minds off their recent defeats sooner than
would otherwise have happened. The timing is bad for us.” Gilhain straightened
his shoulders as though mentally preparing himself for something yet to come.
“But it is what it is, and we’ll deal with it as we’ve dealt with everything
else.”

A little while later a small group of riders emerged from
the ranks of the enemy. They wore bright colors, and the harness of their
horses glittered. They were proud men, sitting astride their mounts as though
they owned the very land and all that they could see.

At the head of the group rode one man, aloof and prouder
even than his companions. On his head he wore a winged helm, a Halathrin helm,
for no others gleamed as did they, or bore the mark of such craftsmanship. But
Cardoroth had
seen
its
like before. It seemed to some
that it was Brand returned, but others said nay. Brand’s helm was horned.

The man’s mail coat shimmered in the light. No cheap thing
was it either, and there were few in the realm who wore armor to match it.
Likewise, his sword was a precious thing. Light flashed from the diamonds
and
precious
stones
set
at its pommel. Yet he bore the look of a man who could fight, and the sword was
not just for ceremony.

They approached, proud and haughty. No flag of truce they
raised, deeming it beneath them, yet no arrow sped from bow nor jeering word
from mouth to rebuke them.

Just behind the lead rider was a second man. His face was
pockmarked, his long black hair held bound by a thick ring of beaten gold. And
he carried a staff with a banner wrapped around it.

They came to a stop near the wall. The lead rider did not
turn, but he made a flicking gesture to the man immediately behind him. The
rider undid a leather thong that held the banner wrapped tight in its position.
When it was untied, he held high the staff and shook free the cloth.

All the men along the Cardurleth saw it. The Durlin saw it,
and Lornach saw it and
finally
understood.
It was a well-known banner: on a sable background was threaded a gold eagle,
one taloned claw lifted and raking at an invisible enemy, its great wings half
stretched out.

“The royal banner!” hissed Lornach, and he looked sharply at
the king.

“Indeed,”
Gilhain
said. “None should
dare to unfurl it except at my order, and none do – except one.”

“Hvargil,” muttered the queen.

Gilhain had been ready for this. He knew it would come one
day, guessed even when he first saw the column of riders who it was that led
them. But it was still a shock, not that he should be any longer shocked at
what his younger half-brother did. It was not the first time that he had
consorted with the enemy. His capacity for treachery knew no equal, unless it
was the extent of his lust for the throne of Cardoroth.

Hvargil reached up slowly and removed his helm, tucking it
under his arm in a gesture that reminded Gilhain of their father. The horse
seemed restless beneath him, but with a squeeze of his legs he guided it a few
steps forward. The other riders stayed where they were.

“Hail, half-brother, and well met,” Hvargil called.

Gilhain raised an eyebrow. “Hail, brother. But our meeting
would perhaps have been better if you brought better company.”

Hvargil glanced back at the elug host and shrugged. “A means
to an end,” he replied.

“Exactly,” Gilhain answered. “But which of you is the means
and which the end?”

Hvargil laughed. “You’re very witty for a man who knows the
answer to your own question. The only end we need speak of is your reign over
Cardoroth. It draws to
a
conclusion soon. And your life
with it.”

“Perhaps,” Gilhain answered. “Certainly, we’re outnumbered.
But then again, things started off that way, and yet we’re still here. If I
were a betting man, I’d stake all I owned on it staying that way. Why don’t you
change sides, while you still can?”

The horse beneath his brother moved restlessly, but Hvargil
betrayed no sign of nerves.

“Oh, I don’t think so. I grant you this, you’ve held on
well, I’ll not deny it. But we both know that time will wear you down. I’ve
made the right bet, and I’ll stick with it.”

Gilhain shrugged. “It’s your head. As I recall, you made the
same bet on a battlefield not so long ago. And against the odds Cardoroth won,
despite your treachery.”

Hvargil showed a flicker of displeasure, but he covered it
swiftly.

“You were lucky that day. Ninety nine times out of a hundred
you would have lost.”

Gilhain smiled. “I’m a lucky king.”

“And I’ll be a long reigning one.”

“Is that what they promised you? Do you really think they’ll
just give you the crown if the city falls and leave you to play kings and
queens by yourself?”

“What a way with words you have. But actions speak louder
than words. Consider this.” He drew his sword and held the helm up high in the
other hand. “You know what these are. They’re Halathrin forged. The helm alone
is worth more than any crown in any kingdom of men. And the sword is priceless.
These they have given me in token of riches to come. And they
will
come,
for the leader of this host rewards well those who serve him loyally.”

The sword and helm glittered and sparkled. Gilhain knew
their worth, and their rarity.

“I’ve seen their like before. But the man who bore them
impressed me more than any such possessions. You can dress a pony up with
ribbons, but you can’t turn it into a warhorse.”

“More words of wisdom. But where is your precious Brand now?
Alive? Dead? Fled back into the wild lands from whence he came?”

Gilhain did not answer straight away. The first option was
his hope, the last his fear. But Aranloth spoke for the first time.

“You know where Brand has gone, and what his quest is. Your
elùgroth masters will have revealed that to you, at least if you’re as high in
their confidence as you think. But I grow bored of this banter. Speak your
message, for surely they put one in your mouth, and then return to them.”

“Bored?” Hvargil said. “You’ve come back from near death
only to be bored the next day? Perhaps you should have considered staying
dead.” He placed the helm back on his head and sheathed the sword. “You see,
old man, I’m very well informed indeed.”