The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (16 page)

 “The Ring of Haleb?” Eimer asked.

 “Yes. Haleb Lor, in the old tongue, the ring of mountains
within which the Kingdom lies. Then one day, by chance, I found something that
I had never been able to find before, though I had long searched for it. I
found a small chink in the curtain of adamant that gave access to the outside
world, to the Forsaken Lands. I ventured out a few times, but there was nothing
out there but endless miles of empty forest and grassland. After one very close
shave with a band of Turog, I abandoned my exploration and stayed within the
safety of the Kingdom. It’s not that I didn’t want to leave, but I knew nothing
of the outside world, nothing of the Forsaken Lands and had nowhere else to go.
Then, just as I was in danger of becoming an uneducated savage, I met, quite by
accident, someone who was to change my life. In my usual pursuit of forbidden
places, I had climbed the palace wall and had fallen and cut a deep gash in my
knee. I was found by Callis, the court physician, and being a man of
compassion, he took pity on me and treated my injury. He had recently lost his
wife and son to illness and I think he was lonely. He became my friend and a
sort of substitute father to me. It was he who told me of the story of
Erren-dar, of how my house had sided with the Destroyer against our own kind
and turned against the Book of Light. Over the years a great bond of affection
grew between us, until he occupied in my heart the place of the father who had
abandoned me. He took it upon himself to complete my education and placed in me
the greatest trust of all – he showed me the only surviving copy of the Book of
Light, hidden away in catacombs beneath the library, so ancient that they had
long been forgotten. All the other copies were destroyed centuries ago, for
every word of peace and goodness written in them convicted us, the House of
Parth, of evil and treachery. If my father ever discovered that I had read the
Book, he would without hesitation have me executed, and Callis too.”

 “All this is very interesting,” interjected a clearly
sceptical Vesarion, “but it does not explain why you are here.”

 She turned on him fiercely. “I’m here because I know what
the sword means. I’m here because I know that it keeps the last remnant of the
Old Kingdom safe. I’m here because others know this also, even if you do not.
My ambitious elder brother, Mordrian, for example. He has no intention, when he
becomes king, of being like generations of our house before us, content to stay
meekly within their designated territory within the Ring of Haleb. He plans to
rule a great kingdom that stretches across the Forsaken Lands from the Island
of Sirkris in the north, to the Harnor in the south. And then he will take
Eskendria, the last fragment of our ancient enemy, and he will do so with the
connivance of the Destroyer.”

 Sareth gasped. “How do you know this?”

 “I told you. I know every passage, every tunnel, every
secret door in the palace and the surrounding city and I have overheard many
conversations not meant for my ears. I have known of Mordrian’s ambition for a
long time, but a few weeks ago I witnessed something that caused me to come on
this journey.”

 She paused in her narrative, as if a little afraid to
proceed. Her hands were clasped tightly together until the knuckles were white
and Sareth knew that it took some courage for Iska to proceed with her tale.

 “One evening,” she resumed in a low voice, “just as it was
getting dark, I saw Mordrian quietly leave the palace by a side door, carrying
a lighted lantern. He began to cross the parkland that surrounds the palace. I
might have thought nothing of it, except for the fact that every so often he
kept stopping and looking around him as if to make sure he was unobserved. I
was naturally curious, so I followed him. I had to let him get some distance
ahead because he was wary, but I was able to keep the little pinprick of light
that was the lantern in view. At first I couldn’t understand where he was going.
He was heading into a part of the park that ends at the wall dividing the palace
grounds from the city. I began to wonder if he was merely on some romantic
assignation - but I couldn’t have been more wrong. I suddenly remembered that
there was one building in the direction in which he was heading – the old
crypt, the resting place of the Kings of Parth. I knew that crypt just as I
knew everything else in the city. I knew that it was accessed by two massive
wooden doors that were always securely locked, but I also knew that there was
another, smaller entrance at the rear which was guarded by a metal grille. It,
too, was locked but so seldom was it used that the lock had rusted through and by
putting my shoulder against it, I had been able to force it open. The one and
only time I had been there previously, I had not lingered. All that there was
inside were the ornate tombs of the kings and queens of Parth, each sarcophagus
carrying a life-size image of the occupant, carved in stone. All there was in
that place was death, and damp and decay, but it was clearly Mordrian’s
destination. As he approached the great doors at the front, I sped around to
the back and entered though the grille ahead of him.” She drew a deep breath,
as if to steady herself. “It was pitch black in that crypt, even to eyes
accustomed to the darkness. In fact, I have never experienced darkness like it.
It was smothering, choking, like a black blanket wrapped around my head, and
for some reason, I grew afraid. It was almost a relief when I heard Mordrian
struggling to unlock the doors, and felt the cool waft of air that suddenly touched
my face, informing me that he had succeeded. Soon the faint light of his
lantern coming down the stone steps signalled his approach and I crouched
behind one of the tombs, making sure I was well hidden from view. He set the
lantern on the floor and began to look around him as if he were searching for
something. Finally, he called out in a voice infused with something that might almost
have been fear.

 “Are you there?” he whispered.

 I held my breath, waiting for a response. At first nothing
happened, and then….” She halted, her face pale in recollection. “Then one of
the figures on top of the tombs began to move. I was so terrified, I thought my
heart would stop. The folds of fabric of the long robe that the stonemason had chiselled
in granite began to relax, to grow soft and move. A gloved hand lying on the
figure’s breast slowly began to rise and the head hidden within a deep cowl, started
to turn. The figure in its long grey robe began to sit up and in one fluid
movement it was on its feet, towering above my brother. There was a silence so
loud that I wanted to cover my ears. My brother stepped backwards, clearly
afraid, but as the terrible silence stretched on, he summoned up the courage to
speak.

 “I was told you would come,” he said, barely above a
whisper.

 The figure did not reply for a moment, but merely regarded
him from under the deep cowl. Then in a powerful, deep voice that echoed round
the crypt and brought me to my knees as if I had been struck, it said: “My
master has work for me to do. Our enemies have grown careless and now the time
is ripe. A mighty talisman will be delivered into your hands. See that you use
it well, for my master does not tolerate failure.”

 “How will this talisman be obtained?”

 “I, myself, will do this thing. I will take the sword of
Erren-dar from under their foolish noses. I will invade the old tower with the
power of my will, which no man can resist, and will deliver to you the means of
destroying the last remnant of the Old Kingdom, that thorn in my master’s side
– Eskendria.”

 “You are certain that without the sword to protect it the
Kingdom will fall?” my brother asked, growing bolder.

 The figure made a sound that might almost have been a
laugh. “They no longer have Erren-dar. They no longer have those fools who once
tried to oppose us, the Brotherhood of Sages, and soon they will no longer have
the power of the sword to protect them. Do you really need to ask such an
unnecessary question?”

 The figure then turned to leave and as it did so, it turned
towards me and for the first time, I could see beneath the cowl – and…and there
was nothing there! Nothing except blackness like looking into a bottomless
well, but as I looked deep within that well, two red points of fire began to
glow, like embers plucked from a furnace, and I could feel the power of those
eyes. They were not even looking at me, but I felt their power with such
intensity that I think…..I think I fainted. I’m not sure what happened. I felt
a blade of sheer, cold terror pass through me and then the next thing I knew
was waking up on the dusty stone floor, with the pale light of morning coming
through the grille. The figure was back on the sarcophagus, once more returned
to stone and my brother had gone.”

 Once again she halted, as if even the memory had the power
to overcome her.

 “What did you do?” breathed Sareth.

 “I fled to the one person I could trust – Callis. He told
me that most likely what I had seen was a demon of darkness, one of the
Destroyer’s most feared servants, and together we came to the conclusion that I
must go to Eskendria and somehow try to ensure the sword’s safety, or at the very
least, find a way of warning you of its peril. But now? Now it has been taken and
my mission has failed.”

 “Why did you run from us?” Eimer asked. “Why did you not
tell us all this before?”

“What would you have done in my position? I returned to the
inn to find armed guards, accompanied by Bethro, ransacking my room, clearly
prepared to tear the place apart to find me. Evidently I had fallen under
suspicion and when I saw so important a personage as the Lord of Westrin
leading the hunt, I knew I was in serious trouble. I also knew that when you
got it out of me that I was of the house of Parth, you would view me as a dangerous
enemy and every single word I said would be disbelieved. So what would you have
done, Prince Eimer?”

 “I would have run,” he conceded.

 “Besides, having seen how lax the arrangements were for
guarding the sword, I suspected it was just a matter of time before it was
taken, and the one advantage that I did have was that I knew
where
it
would be taken.” She shrugged. “So if I couldn’t protect it, the next best
thing I could do, was to steal it back again.”

 Catching the look on Vesarion’s face, she said: “You see?
He clearly does not believe any of this! This is exactly what I thought would
happen. How can I convince you that I am telling the truth, when all you have
ever heard about the house of Parth is evil, treachery and deceit. Maybe I was
a fool to even attempt this, but who else could warn you? Callis is the only
other person I could trust and he is too old to travel this distance.”

 “Why would you even want to warn us?” Bethro asked. “By
warning us you are betraying your own kingdom, your own brother, why would you
do this for people you have never met?”

 “I’m not sure. Perhaps to try and make up a little for the
harm we have done in the past. When Callis let me read the Book of Light, everything
changed for me. Suddenly everything we stood for seemed wrong and if I had any
doubts about that, all that was needed to convince me was to witness the
meeting my brother had with that….that dreadful spirit. I have never felt such
a sense of undiluted evil as that which emanated from the shrouded figure. Such
things must not be allowed to triumph. The victory which Erren-dar won over the
Destroyer must not be in vain. Somehow, good cannot be allowed to fail.”

 She looked up pleadingly at the faces surrounding her,
willing them to understand.

“That was quite a speech,” remarked Vesarion dryly.

 Iska turned to him with a touch of despair. “If the heir of
Erren-dar will not believe me, what hope do I have?”

 Vesarion opened his mouth to reply, but what he might have
said, none of them were ever privileged to hear, for at that moment they were
interrupted by several loud thuds, as twenty snarling Turog dropped from the
trees all around them.

 For a heartbeat no one reacted, then pandemonium broke out
as everyone with the means to do so, drew their swords. The Turog were equipped
with a motley selection of weapons and armour. Some carrying their traditional
curved swords, others, maces and battleaxes that had clearly been stolen. Most
had no armour other than helmets, but one or two wore chain-mail or
steel-studded cuirasses. Without exception, they were all snarling, working themselves
into battle frenzy, their wide mouths stretched back to reveal ranks of pointed
teeth.

 They had descended from the trees in such well-placed
formation that the ambushed humans were split into three disparate groups.
Eimer and the two women were isolated in one group and Ferron and the guards in
another. Vesarion had the worst luck of all, for he got stuck with Bethro, who
could only be described as a liability in such situations. The horses,
terrified by the unfamiliar odour of Turog, began to rear and struggle and took
the opportunity of their keeper’s attention being elsewhere, to tear themselves
loose. Off they bolted into the trees without a backward glance, leaving their
owners to face their assailants on foot.

 The guards were the first to be attacked, their swords soon
clashing on the heavy, spiked maces being swung at them with bone-breaking
force. The Turogs’ shorter stature meant that they often aimed blows at a man’s
legs in an attempt to bring him down – an effective tactic, for legs are
difficult to protect with a shield. The guards abandoned their shields in
favour of the only feasible means of defence  - a lightning-swift counter-blow
with their swords.

 Sareth, standing behind her brother, had only the barest
moment to catch a glimpse of one of the Ravensholders being brought down by
such a ploy before three of the grey-skinned attackers turned their attention
to Eimer. His sword was in his hand and all trace of the easy-going prince had
gone from his face. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, every muscle taut,
for he knew that more than his own life depended on his actions. The leading
Turog, armed with a razor sharp blade of curved design, launched into the
attack with a frenzied yell. Eimer got a strong grip on his hilt and deflected
the blow with such force that Sareth thought that she briefly saw sparks. Had
the Prince been faced with only one such opponent, she was  certain that he would
have defeated it. He was dealing with it aggressively, forcing it to retreat, the
two weapons ringing against each other, but the other two creatures were creeping
round behind him while his attention was diverted. Having no weapon herself,
she did the only thing she could.

 “Eimer!” she cried. “Behind you!”

 In response, he spun on his heel so swiftly that he caught
one of the ambush party off-guard and thrust his sword deep into its gut. The
creature screamed in agony and doubled up, dropping its weapon. Eimer wasted no
more time on it, but snatching up its fallen sword - a stolen one of human
design - he tossed his own sword to Sareth.

 “Catch, Sareth!” he cried. “Remember Parrick!”

 She deftly caught the hilt, realising instantly what he
meant, for Parrick had been their father’s master-at-arms who had first taught
Eimer to handle a sword. Sareth was not supposed to have attended such lessons
but being independently minded, had gone anyway and showed such quickness and
agility that, much to Parrick’s amusement, she had often beaten her younger
brother.

 Mouth dry, she tried to remember all she had been taught as
she began her attack on the second Turog. Its yellow eyes grew slit-like in
contempt when it realised the nature of its opponent but it paid for its
arrogance with a deep slash on the shoulder, for the Turog was in ignorance of
something that only Eimer knew – Sareth was fast. More cautious now, it turned
its strength against her, delivering blows of shocking power for its size,
forcing her back into the trees, further away from her brother, who was fully
engaged in ensuring his own survival. A hard lunge delivered with all the
strength of its muscular, grey-skinned arms was skilfully parried but Sareth
knew she was in trouble and continued to retreat before it, hoping for an
opening in its guard. She glanced despairingly towards Eimer knowing he could
not help her, but assistance came from an unexpected source. Iska, having no
weapon of her own and finding herself largely ignored by the Turog, hunted
around in the undergrowth until she found a thick, heavy branch. Using the
Turog’s tactics against it, she crept up behind Sareth’s opponent until she was
within striking distance, then brought the branch down with all her strength on
the crown of its head. In itself, the blow achieved nothing more than knocking
its  helmet over its eyes, but it gave Sareth the chance she had been waiting
for and without hesitation she took it. She thrust the point of her borrowed
sword through its throat with such determination that it came out the back. For
an instant it hung on her sword, blood pouring from its throat and open mouth,
before dropping like a stone to the earth.

 Vesarion, fighting on his own on the opposite side of the
clearing against several opponents at once, caught a brief glimpse of Sareth as
she delivered the fatal blow and saw something in her face that he stored for
later thought. He had no time now to consider anything other than survival, because
 his attackers were attempting the same thing that they had with Eimer –
encirclement. He was forced to keep backing and turning in order to keep them
in front of him, and Bethro, almost hysterical with fright, kept getting in his
way. One of the Turog would spring forward and engage him, trading swift, hard
blows, while the others filtered around him like a silent, incoming tide. His
senses heightened by fear, Vesarion whirled to face first one, then the other,
his sword flashing in the sunlight, but he knew he could not for long keep all
five of them at bay. Backing into Bethro yet again, he cast a glance over his
shoulder and saw an opening.

 “Quick, Bethro! –
Run
!” he roared.

 Bethro, not at all quick-witted under stress, said blankly:
“Where?”

 “Anywhere, you fool!” thundered Vesarion. “Just
run
!”

 Finally, spotting the gap, Bethro took off, followed hotly
by his hard-pressed protector.

 Fat and indolent the Keeper of Antiquities might be, but
when properly motivated, he could produce a quite remarkable speed, and a group
of murderous, shrieking Turog on his tail was all the motivation he needed.

 With all the grace of a runaway bull, Bethro crashed
through the undergrowth, breaking through branches, or letting the more pliable
ones snap back with a whack on Vesarion just behind.

 Twice, Vesarion had to briefly stop in his flight to fight
a rearguard action, but Ferron’s description of the Turog proved correct – they
were strong but not swift and gradually the two men began to pull ahead.

 Vesarion’s long strides fairly flew over the ground,
catching up with Bethro’s form blundering along ahead of him.

 “They’re still behind us,” he gasped as he drew level.
“They are nothing if not persistent. We must either find some way of shaking
them off, or a place where I can fight them where they can’t get behind me.”

 Bethro did not reply, not having enough breath to do so.
His face was an alarming shade of scarlet and was running with sweat, but still
he kept going.

 Vesarion shot ahead of him, searching the terrain, but luck
was against him. A short distance further brought him to the edge of a deep
ravine. He braked abruptly, sending a shower of small stones over the cliff
face. Peering over, he could see that the cliff bulged outwards, its grey, scree-covered
surface dotted with small bushes and stunted trees clinging precariously to the
steep gradient, before dropping sheer to the river below. It clearly offered no
hope of succour and he turned away, deciding it was somewhere to be avoided. However,
he had reckoned without Bethro. Although the pursuing Turog were now out of
sight, their yells and snarls, echoing through the forest, clearly signalled
that they had not given up and Bethro had no intention of stopping until they
had. He came charging towards Vesarion, oblivious to warning shouts, and only
came to a teetering halt on the very brink of the void. But his forward
momentum was not so easily checked. Wildly he flailed his arms, seeking
something to help him recover his balance and unfortunately what he found was
Vesarion’s belt. His companion was a tall man but the self-indulgent librarian
was heavier and together they started to slide over the cliff.

 “Let go!” cried Vesarion, too late.

 But Bethro did not let go. The two were over the rim by now
and were sliding amongst the scree and loose stones down the overhanging bulge.
Vesarion knew from his previous inspection that once they reached the edge of
the overhang, nothing would save them. All that awaited was a terrifying fall
through thin air until they crashed into the rocky bed of the river far below.
An event that would, without doubt, finish them both.

 Desperately, he grabbed at the small trees and bushes as
they skidded past. For a moment he managed to catch hold of a bush, briefly checking
their fall, but with a sickening lurch, it uprooted and they began to slide
again. Once more, when they brushed past a stunted young pine tree, his arm
shot out and he managed to hook his hand over its slender, twisted trunk. With
a shoulder-wrenching jerk, their descent was arrested. Bethro was still
dangling from the belt, both eyes tight shut, his weight causing the belt to
dig into Vesarion’s middle so deeply that it was almost cutting him in two.

 “Bethro,” Vesarion croaked, short of breath and his mouth
full of grit. “Bethro, open your eyes.”

 “Nooooooo!” wailed the terrified librarian. “I’m going to
die!”

 Vesarion spat the grit out of his mouth. “We’re both going
to die if you don’t do as you’re told!”

 Gingerly, Bethro opened one eye.

 “That’s better,” said Vesarion encouragingly. “Just don’t
look down.”

 So, of course, Bethro looked down. He began to howl again.
“Too late! Too late! I looked down!”

 Despite his fear, Vesarion was rapidly becoming enraged.
“Bethro,” he snarled. “if you don’t pull yourself together, I am going to damn
well unbuckle this belt and you can fall off the cliff for all I care.”

 In actual fact, the belt was pulled so tight he could not
have carried out this threat even if he had wished to – and there were moments
when he had been tempted.

 But the threat worked, and Bethro looked up.

 “This tree cannot hold both of us,” Vesarion declared
rapidly. “So you are going to have to find something else to take your weight.
Now look to your left. No! Don’t shut your eyes again! Look to your left and
you will see an ash sapling just a little above you.”

 “What if it gives way!” wailed Bethro.

 A shriek from the forest above told Vesarion that their
pursuers were almost upon them.

 “Quickly. The Turog will be here any moment. There’s no
time for this, now catch hold of it.”

 Bethro managed to clamp a clammy hand around the stem. It
bent a little but seemed well anchored, so summoning up all his courage, he
released his hold on Vesarion’s belt and got both hands in a vice-like grip on
the sapling.

 Vesarion gasped, experiencing the sudden relief of being
able to breathe again and looked upwards. They had descended some distance down
the bulging overhang and he could no longer see the top. He could only hope
that the reverse was also true, for there was utterly nothing he could do about
it. He began to hear the sound of snarling coming closer. Then some sort of
discussion took place at the edge of the cliff in a harsh, guttural language he
could not understand.

 He glanced at Bethro, who was also looking up, and had, for
once, the good sense not to speak.

 The discordant chatter continued, occasionally interspersed
by grunting or barking noises, but after a little while it faded, only to come
back again as the Turog examined the cliff top once more. A shower of small
stones raining past them, alerted the two men to the fact that something was
clearly standing on the very edge of the precipice above, looking over. They
both flattened themselves against the scree, unaware that they were so coated
in grey dust that they were reasonably well camouflaged.

 At last, the sounds of activity above began to fade and
soon ceased altogether. Silence fell, broken only by the soft moan of the wind
through the trees and the distant sound of the river far below them.

 “Do you think they’ve gone?” whispered Bethro.

 “I think so. Just don’t make too much noise.”

 Bethro looked at himself and Vesarion clinging to their
tenuous lifelines above the void and realised that things had only marginally
improved.

 “What do we do now?” he asked.

 Eimer, relieved to discover that Sareth had evened the
odds, soon made short work of the remaining Turog. He emerged from the fight to
discover that apart from Sareth and Iska, he was alone in the glade. There were
no Turog, no guards, except for the one that the Turog had killed, and no sign
of Vesarion or Bethro.

 “What happened?” he asked, like someone awakening from a
trance.

 “The majority of the Turog pursued Ferron and the two
guards into the forest in that direction,” advised Sareth, pointing back in the
direction they had come. “As for Vesarion? I was...er...a bit busy, so I didn’t
see what happened.”

 “I did,” volunteered Iska. “He was in danger of being
surrounded and Bethro kept getting in his way, so he decided to try to out-distance
the Turog. He and Bethro ran off in that direction with five Turog snapping at
their heels.”