The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  Andarion was still chuckling to himself when he returned to the camp and entered his tent, but his good-humour abruptly ceased as he recoiled violently, assailed by the overwhelming smell of rotten eggs.

  “Relisar, if you want to speak to me you will have to come out here,” he called sharply into the tent.

  Relisar emerged wearing a sheepish expression and carrying a red cloak.

  “Em.....I don’t quite know how to put this but there has been a little accident. I don’t know how it happened but......”

  The Prince interrupted him, beginning to think that there might be some merit after all in his brother’s opinions.

  “You never do, Relisar.” He picked the cloak up by its edge and handed it to a passing soldier. “Burn it,” he commanded laconically.

  “I must speak to you......”

  “Not in that tent. If you want to speak to me, we will walk towards the woods where we can breathe some fresh air.”

  Without waiting for a reply, the Prince strode towards the woods with Relisar trotting behind him. When they reached a clearing caused by the demise of a mighty oak, Andarion seated himself on its fallen trunk and resigned himself to the inevitable.

  “Well?”

  “I think I know why the spell to summon the Champion did not work,” Relisar announced in thrilling accents. The reaction was not all he could have wished.

  “We are launching a most dangerous attack against the Turog tomorrow and you drag me out here to tell me that? Does this discovery enable you to summon the Champion?”

  Relisar looked crestfallen. “Well....er....no.”

  The Prince sighed in a manner that conveyed his exasperation more than words.

  “But it is important,” Relisar protested. “Please listen. I promise to be brief.”

  Andarion shrugged and taking that as encouragement, Relisar began: “I found it in the Lays of Tissro the Wanderer. The old man that he met by the city of Korem said something that goes like this - if I can remember the words correctly.” He thought for a moment then quoted:

  “Here is a riddle for you. The Champion of the Book of Light has four names. One by which the world will know him yet know him not. One that only he knows but which he has forsaken. One bestowed upon him by his enemies in fear and the one given to him by the Book of Light - Erren-Dar - the Wielder of the Sword of Flame. Now tell me, Wanderer, what are his first three names?”

  Tissro shook his head. “I cannot tell, old man.”

  “That is because you do not have the key, nor shall you ever find it. Yet through you it will be found and the names of the Champion will be known.”

  Don’t you see?” said Relisar excitedly. “The Champion must be summoned by name and I only know one of his names - Erren-Dar - the one bestowed on him in the Book of Light. His first three names are still unknown. That is why he did not appear. That is why the spell failed. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

  Neither did Andarion. “So what do we do now?”

  “We must find out his names,” Relisar announced with great conviction.

  “And how do we do that?”

  “I....er...I don’t know. The passage that I just quoted contains another reference to a key that I had forgotten about. But what key? I once thought it might be Elorin, but I have gone wrong in so many things recently, that I begin to doubt myself. Perhaps the key is not a person but an object, a book, a spell? If so, then where can it be found? It said it would be found through Tissro but not by him. But Tissro is long dead, so how can we find it though him?”

  The Prince stood up abruptly. “So, we are no further forward. Sarrick is right. We must rely on our own strength, such as it is.”

  Relisar looked distressed. “I will find the answer to the riddle. I will. I swear it.”

  Andarion relented a little. “I know you will do all you can, but in the meantime we must proceed by human methods. We must fight a battle and we must prevail. The alliance of the three kingdoms must be reborn.”

  Prince Andarion would have been most disturbed if he had known that far to the south-west in Ravenshold, his old enemy knew every detail of the planned attack. Like Sarrick, Celedorn knew the value of scouts and the advantages of being forewarned. When he discovered that a large portion of the Eskendrian army was massing near the Harnor, he suspected that he was not the target, but he had survived so long in his dangerous occupation because he never based his actions on suppositions. Some of his most trusted men were despatched in secret to find out just exactly what was going on.

  When he learnt of the rafts hidden in the trees and the sheer numbers of Turog in the forest opposite where the Prince had stationed his men, he for once found himself in complete agreement with the proposed course of action.

  Lately there had been so many incursions by the Turog into the mountains that he and his men had been hard pushed to deal with them. Something much bigger was clearly brewing and if the Prince dealt with it for him, so much the better. What he had difficulty finding out, what still eluded him, was the means by which the Turog were reaching the mountains.

  He was seated in his usual chair by the fire in his quarters, pondering the information the scout had just given him. His legs were stretched out in his usual relaxed fashion and a glass of wine rested untouched in his hand. So deep in thought was he, that the daylight faded unnoticed. The room gradually darkened until it was lit only by the subdued red glow of the fire. Outside the leaded panes of the window, the clear spring sky darkened to the most intense, eternal blue of evening.

  Finally, as if suddenly aware of the darkness, he arose and taking a brand from the fire, lit several candles on the long table. The blueness of the sky deepened in response, but his mind was on other matters. He crossed to the cabinet that unbeknown to him, Elorin had ransacked in her search for paper, and extracted from it a roll of fine leather which he spread open on the table. It was a map of the region showing the two kingdoms of Eskendria and Serendar side by side, both bordered to the north by the Harnor. Although the map was detailed to the south of the river, showing forests, rivers, mountains and towns, to the north the Great Forest petered out into emptiness marked only by the words “The Forsaken Lands”. These were the lands that had once belonged to the Old Kingdom but which now lay within the domain of the Destroyer. Virtually nothing was known about them, only legends and rumours, each more wild than the last. For a thousand years no human being had lived there, but what was clear was that the region now crawled with Turog and anyone in their right mind avoided it.

  He looked more closely at the Westrin Mountains. He had assumed up until now that the Turog were crossing the Harnor further east in Eskendria and then penetrating the mountains along the long valleys that stretched up to the passes. But with a large Eskendrian army stationed to the east, that looked increasingly unlikely. Yet still they came.

  Where the Harnor entered the mountains it had cleaved for itself a mighty gorge, narrow and sheer, a dizzying chasm through which it forced its powerful volume. So deep and precipitous were the sides of the gorge, that sunlight never penetrated it. It therefore constituted a formidable natural barrier and there was no point at which it could be crossed. The precipitous cliffs continued on the southern side all the way to the sea but on the northern side they dipped a little for a few miles, allowing the forest to come down almost to the river. Beyond this region the river thundered over a mighty cataract known as the Sorcerer’s Falls before re-entering the gorge on its final stage to the sea.

  So how were they getting into the mountains? He looked at the map again. The curious curving path of the river, forced into convoluted shapes by the iron-hard rocks of the mountains, gave the gorge its name - the Serpent’s Throat. He stared at it reflectively. The mystery of how the Turog were getting into the mountains in such numbers must be solved. They were stretching his resources to the limits and even Ravenshold could not withstand them for ever. Perhaps it was time for a personal reconnaissance.

&
nbsp; Chapter Eleven

  The Ambush

  The hammering finally stopped as dusk fell. After hours of tapping, banging and the steady thump of bellows, the silence seemed eerie, unnatural. Dimly, flickering between the trunks of the trees like fireflies, the watch fires of the enemy appeared.

  Prince Andarion, observing all this from his favourite vantage-point, had lost none of his uneasiness.

  “They know we are here,” he murmured to himself, “and they are indifferent to the fact that we clearly know where they are. That speaks either of total belief in the superiority of their force, or they know something we do not.”

  He watched as the daylight receded and the forest became a dark and gloomy mass, its canopy stretching unbroken as far as his eye could see. The sturdy trunks rose like pillars along the edge of the far riverbank, giving the forest a fortress-like appearance. Even the Harnor colluded in the gloom, sliding between its banks with furtive power. There would be no moon tonight, he thought, glancing at the clouded sky. Sarrick would be pleased. There would be no silver face illuminating the rafts, turning the Harnor into a gleaming band as bright as a sword, against which their approach would be silhouetted. The river was as black as ink, its strong flow creating scarcely a ripple. Yet though it aided them in one way, it could betray them in another. It was swollen now with snow melted in the mountains far to the east, where in some distant glen it arose from the rocks as a tiny bubbling spring. Now, joined by countless brethren, it reached for the sea in a mighty effort, girdled and confined only by the Serpent’s Throat to the west.

  He resigned himself to a long wait for the dark hours before dawn when the attack would begin. The Prince stayed where he was, preferring the solitude of the hilltop to his tent in the camp below. He would return in time to see the rafts moved down from their hiding place to the river’s edge below, but until then, he would commune silently with his own thoughts, sleep as far distant as the hidden moon.

  When finally he descended the hillside, his mind was calm and his purpose committed. When he passed Sarrick’s tent, he looked in, and found, to his envy and amusement, that Sarrick was still fast asleep. Not so Relisar, who appeared to have adopted the Prince’s tent as his personal territory and was oblivious to all hints to the contrary. He shot out of his chair like a startled pheasant when the Prince appeared.

  “I was beginning to worry about you,” he declared, clearly relieved. “You had been gone so long and there is no saying but some of those creatures might be crawling about on this side of the river.”

  The Prince merely nodded slightly in reply, unwilling to get involved in conversation.

  “Go and wake Sarrick,” he ordered quietly. “It is time.”

  When Relisar had gone, he lifted his scabbard from the table and buckled it on. His shining blade was spotless and razor sharp. It slid into the scabbard with such willingness that it seemed almost eager for its task. He donned his helmet and lifted a heavy, round shield on his left arm.

  Sarrick appeared at the entrance to the tent similarly attired.

  “Come, brother, the first of the rafts is on its rollers and descending the bank to the river.”

  The water looked even blacker and more evil near at hand than it had done from the vantage- point of the hill. Its face reflected no light, making the area between the banks seem like some bottomless void. The huge, cumbersome rafts were lined along the bank, the men waiting in orderly lines behind the raft that each was to board. Sarrick signalled the swimmers to enter the water. Dozens of them waded out before disappearing from view, swallowed up by the darkness. Andarion thought that it took a particular kind of courage to tackle that black river at night with the Turog perhaps waiting to deal out death on the far bank. But if they didn’t make it, then the whole attack would be abortive, for they were to secure the ropes which were the means of getting the rafts across.

  Suddenly, one by one, the ropes lying beside the rafts sprang tight. Andarion tensed, listening for the sound of a fracas on the far bank but all was silent except for the gurgling of the river against its banks and the lonely call of some night bird. Sarrick leaned towards him and murmured: “All the ropes have been secured. The archers are in position to give us cover if necessary. I have ordered complete silence until we are across.” Andarion nodded. “The raft below is yours, brother,” Sarrick added. “Good luck.”

  “May the Father of Light grant victory to his children,” a voice said out of the darkness.

  Sarrick turned in exasperation. “Relisar, you old fool, what are you doing here?”

  “If the Prince goes into danger then I will go with him.”

  “You will only get in the way,” Sarrick hissed. “He has no time to protect you from getting your stupid head cut off by the Turog. If you come, you may take your chances. Just don’t get in my way.”

  With that, he strode off to his own raft.

  “He’s right,” said Andarion in a milder tone. “It’s too dangerous, old friend.”

  He couldn’t see Relisar’s face in the darkness but could make out the faint glimmer of his silver hair and beard. However his tone left no doubt of his determination.

  “I’m coming,” he announced with uncharacteristic brevity, reminding the Prince that he could on occasion be stubborn.

  “Very well, just stay to the back and keep your head down.”

  The rafts were no more than crude wooden platforms, floating stodgily, weighted down by their burden of men. The Prince stood at the front, watching the far shore approach, sword drawn in hand. The men heaved on the ropes secured by the swimmers, and the heavy cables creaked and groaned with the strain. The Prince imagined the darkness to be a shade less intense as dawn approached, for he could distinguish the rafts on either side, making their cumbersome way across. The moment the raft bumped the far bank, Andarion leaped ashore, followed closely by his men. All along the bank a similar event was happening. He heard the small noises of their presence. The clink of weapons; a smothered cough. But still silence reigned in the forest before him. Dawn was coming fast. The darkness was no longer black but deep grey. The Turog watch fires still glimmered between the trees. A messenger touched his arm and in a low voice informed him that all the troops had landed. With thumping heart, he signalled the advance. Military formation was impossible due to the density of the trees and the men began to filter like shadows between the silent trunks. Like a secret tide they moved noiselessly forward, swords and bows ready, shields poised.

  Still there was no response. All the Prince’s old uneasiness returned. Cautiously they approached the campfires. He could see one of them plainly now, situated in a clearing in the forest, surrounded by tents pitched in the Turogs’ usual disorderly fashion. There was no one in sight. Were they all in the tents asleep? Where were the guards?

  Someone touched his arm and he almost jumped. It was Sarrick. “I have halted our advance,” he whispered. “I do not like this. It smells of a trap. I have despatched scouts to the other camps to locate the Turog. In the meantime I do not think it advisable to enter these clearings.”

  “Surely we must send a small party to investigate the tents?”

  Sarrick hesitated. “Agreed.”

  He despatched half a dozen men who entered the camp, watched by their comrades from the trees. The fire still crackled and blazed cheerfully on the empty scene. Unnoticed, strand by gossamer strand, the darkness lifted. A soldier approached the first tent and drew back the flap using the point of his sword. He turned and shrugged, which the watchers took to mean that it was empty. The other men did the same. Their captain, made bold by the silence, turned and called: “There’s no one here. They’ve all gone.” The words were no sooner out of him, than an arrow whistled out of the trees and thudded into his throat. For a brief moment he looked surprised before he fell.

  Soon the air was thick with arrows. They whined and sliced through the air, thudding into trees, clanging as they glanced off the shields of the men. Andarion felt the impact
of two as they struck his raised shield. Then suddenly he heard a heavy thud, too heavy for the impact of an arrow. He spun on his heel to discover a slant-eyed, heavily-armed Turog behind him. For a split second he couldn’t think where it had come from, then more thuds followed as one by one they dropped on the men from the concealment of the tree branches. In the brightening light he caught a glimpse of Sarrick far to his left, surrounded by enemies. The Turog charged him. Shorter than the Prince but long-armed and powerful, individually they were formidable opponents but Andarion knew that their instinct was to fight in packs. It was an old ploy of theirs that one should attack from the front while another attacked from behind. The Prince, his senses alert, heard the telltale thud behind him. Swiftly he dealt the first Turog such a powerful blow that it staggered back and in the same movement he spun to face the creature that had just landed behind him.

  What he saw, checked him. Before him was a Great-turog, the largest species, bred for its size, strength and aggression. They were usually more cunning than the others and consequently were much used by the Destroyer as captains. Its yellow eyes stared at him from beneath its helmet, so close that he could see that its pupils were not round, but slitted, like a goat’s. Its mouth was drawn back in a snarl that revealed ranks of sharply-pointed teeth. It was taller than the Prince and much more powerfully built: its bowed legs were iron-hard, its long arms gave it dangerously extended reach. It swung its curved blade at the Prince like a scythe. He took the powerful blow on his shield, flinging up his left arm to meet the attack. He was a tall man, and strong, but the sheer force of the blow caused him to stagger back. Pain sheered up his arm to his shoulder. He glanced in astonishment at his shield. It had been cleaved in two with a mighty crack that came down as far as the arm grip. For a dreadful moment he thought his left arm had been broken, but he found he could move it and swiftly disengaged it from the shield, casting the useless fragments aside. This took only a few seconds but the Turog gave him no respite. Its blade was already swinging back to deliver another hammering assault. Andarion gripped his sword with both hands to increase the power behind his blows and ignoring his pain, flashed up his sword to counter the attack. The two blades met with a force that jarred him again to the shoulder. Despite himself, he groaned in agony. He had never fought a Great-turog in single combat before and remembered too late that no man could prevail unaided against one. But the Prince was no coward and fought grimly on, glad only that the smaller Turog had abandoned him in search of easier prey - or perhaps it feared to trespass on its captain’s territory, for the Great-turog were known to kill the smaller species on the slightest provocation.