The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (43 page)

 When she remained sullenly silent, quite deliberately, without
any apparent passion, he slapped her sharply across the face.

 “Do I make myself plain?” he repeated.

 Still exuding defiance, she snapped. “Yes.”

 He laughed. “Well, you have gall, if nothing else. My
father desperately wanted you to have the power, but I never shared that wish.
What? Pollute the royal line with a maid’s brat? Have a little mongrel like you
partake of every decision of state? I think not. No, on mature reflection I
think it best that you just quietly disappear. You may achieve this yourself,
or I will do it for you. I will give you one week to find some hole to hide in,
that is so far away from here that I never have to set eyes on you again, or…”
he paused, his amber eyes boring into hers. “…or it is sadly possible that some
day, when you climb that tree to get to your room, you might tragically have a
nasty fall. Such a pity, but accidents happen, after all.”

 He released his hold on her collar and deliberately wiped
his hand on his sleeve. “So what is it to be? A lost rat, or a dead one?” He
laughed again, and as he began to cross the stable yard, he called mockingly
over his shoulder: “It’s entirely up to you. One week, that is all, little nobody,
one week.”

 Bethro, recovering quickly from his chastened mood, took
charge of the dining arrangements next morning. He had arisen feeling refreshed,
unaware that he had kept Eimer awake for most of the night with his strident
snoring. Jocularly, and entirely inappropriately, he vented his disapproval of
the lazy habits of the younger generation, who refused to get out of their beds
in the morning. Poor Eimer, driven to distraction for most of the night, had
finally got to sleep just as dawn was breaking when, for some unascertainable
reason, the snorer had finally fallen silent. Now, dragged out of his bed by
his exasperatingly chirpy companion, he grumped his way down the stairs and out
into the sunshine of the busy square. Bethro led him to one of the wooden
benches set at long trestle tables outside the inn to allow patrons to dine in
the fresh air. Thwarted by the fact that he couldn’t order breakfast until Iska
arrived, the hungry librarian occupied himself both by mentally making a long
list of  all the things he intended to have for breakfast and by watching the
activity in the busy square. The streets teemed with street-vendors selling their
wares from wheelbarrows and baskets, and Bethro ravenously contemplated a
hawker selling delicious-looking apples from a large basket. Eimer, in
contrast, was oblivious to what went on around him He sprawled across the
table, his cheek propped up on one hand, his eyes closed in apparent
exhaustion, but when the others arrived, Eimer forgot his tiredness the moment
he got one glimpse of Iska’s face.

 Vesarion, catching the glances of concern directed at his
white-face companion, said: “I haven’t heard the whole story, but apparently
Iska witnessed something deeply disturbing last night.”

 Iska sat down on the bench, very far from her usual
vivacious self, and could barely  summon up the presence of mind to order
breakfast. Sareth advised her to keep her story until she had eaten, and
indeed, some hot food and a small glass of ale seemed to steady her. The agitated,
frightened look subsided and beginning with the moment she had reached the
crypt, she told them in great detail everything that had happened.

 “Mordrian clearly didn’t know where I had been,” she finished.
“But he knows much more about my activities than I had thought possible. I had
no idea that he knew it was me who borrowed horses from the King’s stables. I
fear I may have underestimated him.”

  Eimer broke in angrily. “He slapped your face! The coward!
I have no use for a man who strikes a woman. It is the mark of a bully. I would
dearly like to teach him a lesson!”

 Iska’s expression softened at his youthful gallantry.
“Bless you, Eimer, for saying that, but there are few men who would be any
match for him. He is a skilled swordsman and a powerful warrior. In fact, I
suspect that there is only one man who might be able to beat him.”

 “But you actually saw the sword!” burst in Bethro excitedly.
Then suddenly recollecting himself, asked more circumspectly: “You’re sure it
was the one? I mean, you’ve never seen it before, have you?”

 Iska sighed. “Bethro, you have guarded the sword for many
years. What is its most distinctive feature?”

 “The three chalice flowers, their stems intertwined,
engraved on the blade just below the hilt.”

 “Then there is no mistake, besides, the demon, or whatever
it is, called it the sword of Erren-dar.”

 Sareth leaned forward. “So, you think it was stolen, not
just to deprive Eskendria of its protection, but to make this new sword?”

 It was Vesarion who replied: “My grandfather’s sword was
clearly needed as some sort of template in order to make the black sword. Up
until now, the Destroyer had nothing with which to directly counter the sword,
but now he has. No doubt it will accompany Mordrian’s army when it moves into
battle against Eskendria. Now, more than ever, we need the sword back again.”

 “But the demon seemed to think that the black sword could
not be defeated,” objected Iska.

 “We shall see,” he replied dryly. “They would not be
guarding Erren-dar’s sword so closely if it were of no value, so forgive me if
I take leave to doubt that it is powerless.”

 “That’s settled then,” declared Eimer with all his usual
enthusiasm. “We must steal it back tonight.”

 Vesarion could not resist a smile at such naivety. “Not so
fast,” he cautioned. “If we succeed in getting our hands on the sword, then all
hell is going to break loose and we will be pursued with all the considerable
resources at Prince Mordrian’s disposal. No, we must not act precipitately.
First, we must carefully plan our escape and there is one thing we require in
order to do that  – horses. There is little point in trying to escape on foot, as
we would be overtaken in an instant.”  He turned to Iska. “I’m afraid we must
rely on you, yet again, Iska. Can you procure horses for us?”

 She cocked her head to one side, considering the issue. “I
can’t resort to my usual trick of borrowing them from my father’s stables, as
there would bound to be a great hue and cry if five horses disappeared. So we
must hire them from an inn or livery stable, and that will cost money.”

 “I wish we could help you there,” Eimer offered. “But Eskendrian
money is useless, even dangerous, here. Do you have enough without it?”

 Iska smiled, something of her old cheekiness returning.
“No, but I know where I can get it.” Seeing that Bethro was about to question
her, she quickly added: “Best not to ask.”

 But Eimer and Vesarion grinned at one another, guessing her
intentions.

 “Very well,” declared Sareth. “Our plans are taking shape.
First, Iska will secure horses for us, then if she will draw a map of the crypt
for us, we will meet later today and plan our theft – and hope that the demon
is elsewhere at the time!”

 “I hate to quibble, Sareth,” said Vesarion in some
amusement, “but it is not theft to take back one’s own property.”

 After the meal, they wandered out into the busy square and
were making arrangements to meet later in the day, when they discovered that
one of their number was missing.

 Bethro had found himself hampered by good manners from
telling Iska that her idea of a satisfying breakfast was considerably different
to his. Ham and eggs were all very well, but what he longed for was some fresh
bread, loaded with butter and honey. Unfortunately, just as they were leaving
the inn, the smell of what he most desired wafted past him from the bakery a
few doors down. Bethro’s nose, ever sensitive to such things, led him
unerringly to the spot where golden loaves were being whisked from the hot
ovens on long wooden paddles. The baker, easily reading the look on Bethro’s
transparent countenance, knew he had a customer and readily accepted the coin
offered in exchange for one of his loaves. He remained staring after his
departing customer, a slight smile on his face as he watched the obvious
delight with which his bread was being carried away. The coin was still in his
hand, and as he stood absently fingering it, the thought crossed his mind that
it felt a little odd.

 Blissfully unaware that the others were searching the
crowded square for him, Bethro sat down on the edge of the fountain to enjoy
his purchase.

 He had almost finished it, when his irritated companions
finally caught up with him. Iska’s eye instantly fell on the last few morsels
of bread.

 “Where did you get that?” she demanded.

 “The bakery,” he replied sullenly. “I was hungry.”

 Vesarion was even more sharp with him. “You were told to
avoid contact with the local people! Can you not follow a simple instruction? Have
you no sense?”

 “I didn’t speak,” was the defiant answer. “I just pointed
to what I wanted and paid him without saying a word.”

 It was at that moment that they were interrupted by the
arrival in the packed square of a detachment of guards. Ominously, they were
accompanied by the baker. The man rapidly scanned the crowds until he spotted
the group by the fountain. His arm shot out, as he pointed in their direction.

“That’s them!” he shouted. “Those are the ones!”

 Immediately, the guards began to battle their way through
the throng towards them, roughly shoving shoppers and vendors alike out of
their way.

 Vesarion’s hand automatically reached for the hilt of his
sword, only to discover that it was not there. It was still hidden in his room
back at the inn.

 Iska, rapidly assessing the situation, gave the only advice
to her companions that was possible under the circumstances.

 “
Scatter!”
she cried in alarm.

 The square had many streets and alleyways leading off it,
and obeying Iska’s instructions to the letter, they each chose a different one,
shooting off in all directions, dividing their pursuers.

 Sareth, picking a narrow alley, found half a dozen armed
soldiers in hot pursuit of her. She could hear the heavy pounding of their
boots on the cobbles behind her and the occasional scrape as their long pikes
caught the walls of the narrow passage. Deciding that her best hope of escape
was to get far enough ahead of them so that she could double back, she flew
with remarkable speed along the narrow passage, ducking and weaving between
lines of washing  hung out to dry behind the houses. Soon, to her relief, she
began to discover that she had the advantage of them, and was beginning to pull
ahead a little, for they were encumbered by their armoured cuirasses and
greaves. Unfortunately, the alley she had chosen was deadly straight with no
turns or side streets. On Sareth ran, desperately looking for a means of
escape, when upon clearing the last batch of washing, she spied a junction up
ahead. A quick glance behind, informed her that her pursuers were still
entangled in the washing and had not a clear view of her. Putting on an extra
spurt of speed in order to reach the corner before they emerged, she cast one
last anxious look over her shoulder. It proved to be her undoing. Violently,
she collided with someone approaching the corner at speed from the opposite
direction. They both recoiled with such force that they were knocked to the
ground.

 “Sareth!” gasped the figure.

 “Iska!” Sareth exclaimed, slightly winded. Hastily she scrambled
to her feet, pulling her friend with her. “Quickly! They’re right behind me!”

 “They’re right behind me, too,” cried Iska.

 The two trapped women looked at each other in consternation
for a brief moment, before Iska, coming to an abrupt decision, grabbed Sareth’s
hand and dragged her into the open doorway of one of the houses. The hallway of
the house was cool, quiet, and most importantly, deserted. Swiftly, Iska closed
the door and turned the key in the lock. Trying to control their ragged
breathing, they stood behind the door in the dim hallway and listened as the
pounding feet drew closer. Sareth’s pursuers arrived first. They could hear
many boots skidding to a halt outside the door and much loud confused talk.

 “Which way did she go?” someone asked.

 “Must have been to the right,” another voice replied, “for
there are more search parties coming up the street to the left. Hey?” he
shouted to some distant person. “Have you seen a woman running this way?”

 The reply was indistinct to the listeners behind the door,
but the owner of the authoritative voice must have heard it.

 “Not that way, then. Maybe she doubled back, or perhaps
went into one of these houses?”

 The two listeners backed away in alarm, as the door handle
turned and the door violently rattled.

  “Locked,” said the voice in disappointment. “You there,
take the left branch. The rest of you, come with me.”

 Gradually, as they stood with their ears pressed against
the door, the sound of the commotion began to subside. They released a relieved
breath in unison and began to look around them. They appeared to be in the
hallway of some sort of building that was in communal occupation. It was built
around a small, dark courtyard overlooked by many shuttered windows. A flight
of stairs led upwards to a long landing off which many doors opened.

 “These stairs will probably lead us up onto the roof,”
whispered Iska, her voice echoing in the cool hallway. “This area of the city
is very densely built up, so it is easy to step from the roof of one building
onto the next. I think it would be safer than trusting to the streets.”

 Sareth nodded her agreement, and silently they ascended
several flights of steps until they emerged onto the flat roof. It was dotted
with tubs of flowers and some chairs but was thankfully unoccupied. Just as
Iska had predicted, the opposite building was close, only a short leap away
across the alley, but unfortunately for someone who disliked heights, the alley
was three floors below. Iska took a short run and cleared the distance easily,
landing nimbly on the roof opposite, but Sareth, who had unwisely looked over
the edge, dithered.

 “Come on,” called Iska encouragingly. “Someone with legs as
long as yours could almost step across.”

 Sareth, a little green about the gills but looking
determined, backed off a pace or two and took such a vigorous leap that she
cleared the gap with too much room to spare, lost her balance and landed with a
crash against the tiled roof.

 “Are you all right?” Iska asked in concern.

 “I think I’ve broken something,” Sareth groaned and drew a
shattered tile out from beneath her.

 Iska laughed. “There’s no need to demolish the place! Come
on, I know somewhere we can hide that they’ll never find.”

 But Sareth had her mind on other things. “That idiot,
Bethro, must have said something to make the baker suspicious,” she declared
with unaccustomed acidity. “Did you notice he was with the guards?”

 “Yes. Unfortunately, I think they got a fairly good look at
us. The whole city appears to be in an uproar.”

 “Do you think the others got away?”

 “I don’t know. The best thing they could do is to find
somewhere to hide. The gates will be closely guarded by now, so there’s little
hope of slipping out of the city. I only hope they had the good sense not to go
back to the inns.”

 Iska led Sareth from rooftop to rooftop across the city
until they arrived at a larger and more impressive square than any of the many
squares they had already seen. Scanning the scene from the safety of the rooftop,
they were reassured by the fact that there appeared to be no guards in sight.
Iska pointed out their goal – a tall, slender tower on the far edge of the
square that bore a large bell at the top, set just below its pointed roof.

 “It’s the old belfry,” she explained. “it was once used for
sounding the alarm in case of fire or other emergencies, but the bell became
sadly cracked a number of years ago and they built a new tower over there. This
one is never used now, except by the pigeons. It has been locked up and
abandoned for many years now and has begun to fall into decay, but I know where
the key is to be found, so hopefully we will be safe there.”

They descended to street level, and with Sareth feeling
hopelessly conspicuous, walked casually across the square to the old tower.
Closer inspection revealed that Iska had spoken the truth. The tower was
mouldering away into oblivion. Its walls were covered in lichens and the
deeply-recessed door was succumbing to dry rot. They slipped unobtrusively into
the deep shadow of the doorway, and Iska, standing on tiptoe on the top step,
ran her hands around the moulding of the old archway until with an exclamation
of satisfaction she withdrew a large, old-fashioned key. 

 Inside was musty and damp with age and neglect. A frayed
rope still hung down the centre of the stairwell for the bell-ringer who came
no more. The floor was covered in a pungent carpet of bird droppings, as were
the steps that went up and up until they reached a stout wooden platform set
just below the ancient bell. Looking up into the bell’s innards, Sareth saw
that its clapper had been removed, rendering it for ever silent. Like
everything else in the tower, the bell, too, had been decorated by the prolific
pigeons. The bell was surrounded by four arched apertures, guarded by slatted
wooden covers. Many of the slats were missing or broken. Peering though one of
the holes, she saw that a magnificent view was to be had over the square and
the many red-tiled rooftops beyond. She was admiring the view, reassured by the
normality of the scene, when her eye fell on something she had not noticed
before.

 “What is that?” she asked Iska, pointing to a slender stone
pillar, carved with many writhing snakes, that stood upon a raised dais on the
far side of the square. Iska peered past her shoulder.

 “Oh, it’s just the old Traitor’s Pillar,” she replied
dismissively. “It hasn’t been used in years.” She handed Sareth the ancient
key. “Now, I’m going to try to find out what has happened to the others. You
must lock the door after me and open it to no one else. I’ll see if Vesarion
has gone back to our inn – although I don’t think he would be foolish enough to
do such a thing.”

 “I should come with you,”

 Iska gripped her arm kindly. “No, Sareth, you know very
well that I will be safer alone.”

 Sareth fully expected to be left to pace the belfry for a
long time, but in actual fact, Iska returned within the hour.

 Upon opening the door to her impatient knock, Sareth found
her struggling under the weight of three packs and other assorted possessions.

 “This pack is mine!” exclaimed Sareth in surprise. “And
this one is Vesarion’s. How did you get these?”

 Iska pushed the door shut and turned the key. “The guards
haven’t found our inn yet. After chasing us all over the place, they have now
begun a systematic search of the city, section by section. They have finished
with the area around the eastern gate but haven’t reached our inn yet, so I was
able to sneak in and get these.”

 “Has Vesarion been back there?”

 “No, there was no sign of him, nor of Bethro or Eimer,
but……” her voice trailed off in a manner Sareth found deeply disturbing.

 “But?” she prompted urgently. “What is it? Tell me!

 “I overheard some of the guards talking. It seems that one
of our number, I don’t know who, has been captured.”

 When Iska had cried the word ‘scatter’, Vesarion had paused
just long enough to ensure that Sareth and she got away safely, before choosing
his own escape route. He picked a busy street with the intention of getting
lost in the crowd, but from the very beginning all did not go to plan. Being
the last of the fugitives to leave the square meant that the majority of the
guards, a little slow to obey orders, had followed him. Moreover, his height
made it difficult to blend in anonymously with the crowd, and he was soon forced
to abandon the attempt at deception and take to his heels. Swiftly, he wove in
and out of the busy throng, dodging past wagons, ducking under shop awnings, making
many unexpected turns, but his pursuers were relentless. They knew the streets
better then he, and had no compunction about knocking flat anyone foolish
enough to get in their way. Vesarion, watching for an opportunity, spotted a
shop selling farm implements at the corner of a narrow entry that vanished off
into the shadows. Reaching the corner, he caught hold of a wooden stand laden
with wares and overturned it behind him. With an almighty crash, rakes, scythes
and pitchforks scattered everywhere. The guards, unable to stop in time, careered
into the wreckage which, to the fugitive’s satisfaction, brought down two of
their number. By the time they had fought their way through the obstruction,
their quarry had disappeared around a corner, climbed a wall at the side of a
single-storey building, crossed the roof and dropped down neatly in a narrow
entry at the back of some stables. A moment later he was back, cool and
composed, in the main thoroughfare, leaving the guards searching in entirely
the wrong direction. Walking away discretely between the crowds, Vesarion could
not resist a slight smile of satisfaction, which turned out, unfortunately, to
be a little premature. He turned a corner to find he had run straight into the
party of guards searching for Sareth and Iska. It was too late to retreat, so
holding his nerve, he strolled casually forward, pretending to be fascinated by
the wares of a shop selling glassware. But a warning shout told him that he had
been spotted. He dropped the bowl he had been examining, and darting through
the shop to the back, emerged in an entry with the guards hot on his tail, leaving
in their wake a trail of broken glass and an irate shopkeeper swearing
vociferously at them.

 He now found himself in a maze of narrow passages that
intersected each other at right angles, and making full use of the confused
network, he twisted and turned, first taking one direction, then another, in an
attempt to shake them off. Finally, running flat out, he rounded a corner to
discover that luck had finally forsaken him. It was a dead end. He was faced
with a blank wall too high to scale. He spun round with some idea of retracing
his steps, but it was too late. The guards had arrived in force at the end of
the passage, trapping him. Clearly not in a pleasant mood at having been led
such a dance, they closed upon him in a body, confident they had their victim
cornered, but they had underestimated him. Suddenly he picked up speed again,
only this time he was not running away from them, but towards them. Before they
knew what was happening, he charged into them, knocking down several. The
unexpectedness of the attack almost made it succeed. He had nearly broken
though, when one of the soldiers, more quick-witted than his fellows, threw a
punch that caught Vesarion on the side of the jaw and sent him staggering. With
his forward momentum stopped, in an instant the others were upon him. He fought
fiercely, landing punches of such force that it did nothing to endear him to
his opponents, but there were too many for him and at last they combined to
wrestle him to the ground. Pinning him roughly face downwards, they wrenched
his hands behind his back and bound them tightly with a rope. Once secured,
they hauled him, dishevelled but still pugnacious, to his feet.

 Their commander, a red mark blossoming into a spectacular
bruise on his cheekbone, eyed him coldly.

 “I don’t know who you are, stranger, or what you intended
to do, but you are now going to face Prince Mordrian and not for all the gold
in Adamant would I stand in your shoes.”