Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3) Read Online Free

the
weather; a subject that farmers and Raithlin often had in common, and one that
many other people rarely saw the use of. If it rained, they stayed indoors. But
farmers and Raithlin had a different perspective. To them, it was a blessing or
a curse depending on the situation – but it was a thing to which they
were never indifferent.
    He caught Erlissa’s glance when one group
started to talk about events in the city. This was not a safe topic within
earshot of the guards, and it died down as swiftly as it began. Lanrik strained
to hear while it lasted, but the men said nothing that he had not already
guessed: the city was in turmoil, food was ever more expensive and jobs fewer.
    The inn grew dark, and the serving maid
lit several candles. It was a feeble effort against the growing night, but it
seemed that candles were as scarce here as goodwill.
    The door opened soon after, and a young
man endured the same routine that everyone else had. He was obviously another
farm hand, and it looked as though he had been drinking elsewhere before coming
to the Bridge Inn.
    The guards let him through with little
fuss, seeming to know him or at least to recognize him as a local. He was tall,
but very young, and Lanrik watched him closely. The man swayed ever so
slightly, and no doubt beer had loosened his tongue as much as it put a falter
in his steps.
    Lanrik had a feeling that trouble was
coming. But when it came, it came swiftly and did not take the form that he
expected.
    The newcomer looked around him, as though
trying to identify anybody he knew. Failing to see any familiar faces, he set
himself and started to walk to the bar. Halfway between the door and his
destination, he paused. Blinking at the candles, he muttered something
unintelligible, and then spoke in a suddenly loud voice.
    “It’s so dark in here that you’d need the
tracking skills of a Raithlin to find the bar.”
    The inn went dead still, and the young man
looked around in bafflement.
    “Was it something I said?”
    The guards turned on him. One of them
struck him hard in the face and another kicked him when he fell down.
    “The Raithlin are dead!” the first guard
shouted. “Every last one of them, and good riddance. Their name isn’t spoken
anymore. Do you understand?”
    The second guard kicked him again to
emphasize the point.
    The youth struggled to a sitting position.
Blood streamed from a gash on his cheek, and he winced as he breathed as though
one of his ribs was broken, which Lanrik thought might well be the case.
    The youth looked around him, suddenly
sober. “The Raithlin are all dead,” he said. “Sorry, my mistake.”
    With as much dignity as he could find, the
man rose on unsteady legs and staggered out the door.
    Lanrik felt sorry for him. He had taken
quite a beating, and the pain would be worse when the alcohol wore off. His
pity was crowded out by another feeling though. The Raithlin were dead. All
of them. He felt cold to his very bones, and though it was an outcome that
he had earlier feared, to actually hear it stated as a fact was still a shock.
    Erlissa reached out and gently placed a
hand over his own.
    Talk slowly returned to the room, but
Lanrik remained still. He only moved when a man at the table adjoining them,
quiet and aloof until then, leaned over and whispered.
    It’s not so , the man said. I
heard that they escaped the city .
    Lanrik tried to hide his excitement. He
leaned casually toward the man and whispered back.
    “Where did you here that?”
    “I heard it said in the Merenloth the day
before yesterday – from Bragga Mor himself.”
    The stranger looked away then, fearful
that their conversation might be overheard, but he had said enough.
    Lanrik considered the information. He knew
Bragga Mor, at least by reputation. He was a famous poet, and he had listened
to him perform many times in the Merenloth. He was also a man of wealth and
prestige in the city. Where most of his poet friends struggled to earn