Blades of the Banished - Robert Ryan Page 0,1

Conhain’s sword hung at his side, useless to him. Yet, he still wanted to draw it. More than anything he felt a sudden desire to be something greater than a Raithlin. Greater than a Lindrath. He ached to be with her, to help her, but that was impossible, and it scared him.

“I see a closed door at the tower’s base,” she continued. “But it is blocked by rubble. The pinnacle is broken, like a tree with a destroyed crown. Merlons, battlements, mighty slabs of stone have all fallen from the turret.”

She hesitated. Lanrik saw a pulse in her neck twitch and throb to the beat of her racing heart.

“No!” she said suddenly. “Not fallen. Not toppled by time, but cast. It is no accident. It bars entrance to the tower by design.”

Her eyes widened, as though straining to see. “Yes. I approach. The top of the tower draws me. It pulls me, and I come.”

Her voice stilled. A moment she ceased to breathe. And then she spoke again.

“I see … Aranloth. He sits on the bare stone. His robes shimmer in the starlight, blazing white against the black flooring. The stars wheel above. The hot sun roves the sky. He moves little, nursing his strength during the baking days, shivering through the bitter nights, for he has nothing to eat and only nighttime dew from cold stone to sustain him. His fingers move, drumming against his staff. But now, now he stirs. He raises his head tiredly. He looks around. He looks straight at me. No! Not now. My sight blurs. The vision is gone!”

Erlissa paused. The skin of her hand was cold and clammy in Lanrik’s.

“No, it is not gone,” she said. “Now I see elùgroths, dim and dark, their wych-wood staffs gripped in pallid hands beneath the stars. They sit in a wedge below the tower, far enough away to avoid attack by lòhrengai and stone. They bend their will to one purpose. They strive, working in unison to bring the building down. Their minds encircle its ancient foundations, probing them, seeking weaknesses, straining to break and sunder. Now, now I see Aranloth again. He trains the force of his iron-like will upon the same foundations … resisting. One man against many. Day after day, night after night. He is strong, but they are many. And … he is among them. Elù-Randùr.”

Erlissa spoke the last words with dread. Her head moved from side to side and her skin paled further. Lanrik would have woken her had she not warned him against doing so. He considered it anyway.

“Aranloth!” she said suddenly. “His face is so weary. His eyes so sad. But hope is still there, though it ebbs low. He looks up at me. He shakes his head. ‘No,’ he mouths. ‘Flee!’ he commands in the silence of the void. And he is gone.”

Erlissa gripped Lanrik’s hand with unexpected force. He did not know she possessed such strength.

“I see more,” she said. “There is … something else.” She took a deep breath and then spoke slowly. “The way is dark. Dark beneath the bones of the earth. And something …” she paused long seconds. “No, I am too weak. The vision slips away.”

A few moments she remained as she was, and Lanrik watched anxiously. As he did so, a spasm racked her body, causing her arms and legs to stiffen, and her muscles to harden and bulge. Her eyes did not blink, and her strange gaze cut straight through him as though he was not there.

He felt panic rise. She was delving into arts that she was not ready for. He knew that much, even if he did not understand them. He knew also that she had held something back. She had seen more than her words had revealed, but he had no time to think on it.

She shuddered again and whispered. I won’t abandon him. And then she toppled from her cross-legged position. Her staff fell from her grip and rattled against the dry earth.

He felt for a pulse, and found one, but it skipped beneath his fingers, thready and weak. Her clothes were damp with sweat, and her skin blue and cold.

Taking her wrists in his hands, he began to rub them, but that would not get the warmth back into her. Not quickly enough, and he knew that he needed to do more. Fire was required, and yet here, in the open lands of their enemies, flame was not their friend. It could draw any number