The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  “I see you have a head for heights,” he remarked grimly. “I don’t particularly care for it myself. Come, we have seen enough. They have clearly not bridged the gorge here.”

  She stepped back a pace and transferred her gaze to the forest on the opposite side of the gorge. It continued uninterrupted as far as she could see.

  “Is that the Forsaken land?”

  “Yes. We must leave the gorge for a while now as the path along the cliff becomes impassable for horses. We will return to it about a mile further east where it narrows like this again.”

  They returned to the horses and for a brief period left the gorge and returned to the silence of the forest, but soon their path turned northwards and the sound of the Harnor could again be detected echoing up the narrow walls. Celedorn, who was a little ahead of her, gave an exclamation and stopped his horse. He turned in the saddle to address the men.

  “It’s here. It is as we suspected - they’ve managed to bridge the gorge. Dismount and bring axes and ropes.”

  A narrow bridge, wide enough for only two men to walk along it abreast, spanned the gorge. It was roughly but serviceably made from hewn tree-trunks and raw branches. Supports angled upwards from the cliff face below, where they had been hammered into crevices. Rough planks had been set transversely between the rope-bound boughs that spanned the echoing void. The planks were muddy with frequent use. There were no hand rails of any kind, nothing to give even an illusory sense of safety and it took a certain amount of courage to cross the narrow structure.

  Celedorn dismounted and crossed to the bridge, followed by the men carrying the items he had ordered. The horses were taken away under guard and lookouts posted at some distance amongst the trees. Everyone stood on the edge of the chasm studying the bridge but no one ventured on to it.

  “This will not be easy,” Celedorn murmured. “It is not enough merely to remove the central portion of the bridge because they will reinstate it in no time. No, the only way is to use axes to weaken the supporting spars that project from the cliff and tear them away by attaching ropes to them and pulling them bodily out of their mountings.” He turned to the man nearest him. “Pick several men who do not fear heights and lower them on ropes to the spars on the far side. They are to weaken them with the axes - but obviously not so much that the bridge falls before they use it to get back. Attach ropes to the spars and feed them back across the bridge. We’ll tie them to the strongest horses and see what that achieves.”

  While all this was going on, Elorin walked onto the bridge and looked down from the dizzying height at the Harnor far distant below. The river ran smoother at this point, churning its powerful way between walls that ran reasonably straight. Its sound was fainter, echoing up the sheer walls. Celedorn, engrossed in plans to destroy the bridge, suddenly noticed where she was.

  “Get off the bridge!” he snapped. “This is no time to play the fool.”

  The men grinned to each other as she retreated feeling like a schoolchild who has been smacked in front of the class. She sat down on a fallen tree-trunk near the bridge, where she could watch all that went on without fear of a reprimand. With Celedorn’s attention clearly absorbed, she could not resist a furtive glance towards her horse. But it was under guard along with the others. For the first time she noticed the armed men posted silently amongst the trees in a wide semicircle around the bridge. Celedorn never relaxed his vigilance.

  A party of men was despatched to the northern end of the bridge where two of their number were lowered on ropes and soon were attacking the supporting spars with the axes, weakening them before attaching the ropes that would complete their destruction. When the job was done, carefully they retired back across the bridge, paying out the ropes behind them. In the meantime a similar process had almost been completed on the southern side.

  But just when the ropes were ready to be attached to the horses, one of the men standing guard suddenly let out a cry of alarm.

  “Turog!”

  All the men working on the bridge instantly sprang for their weapons and the forest rang to the sound of three hundred blades drawn in unison. Celedorn’s tall form strode forward, sword in hand, in time to encounter a large party of Turog emerging from the trees, the bridge clearly their destination. For a moment there was a stunned silence, then with fierce yells the Turog drew their weapons and attacked.

  Elorin, forgetting Celedorn’s instructions, stayed where she was near the bridge. The men flung themselves into the fight, not one coward amongst them. Soon the tumult was fierce, weapons clashing, the Turog snarling as they always did in a fight, and the battle cries of the men rending the air. One man, unable to reach his weapons in time, was doing valiant service using the axe with which he had been attacking the bridge. It wasn’t a battle axe, and lacked the double-edged blade of that fearsome weapon, but that didn’t prevent him burying it in the chest of his opponent. Celedorn was at the far side of the fray, she saw his sword flash above the heads of the others and standing on the tree-trunk to get a better view, she watched the fury with which he attacked his adversaries. They surrounded him in a pack, four attacking at once, unaware of who he was because of the helmet covering his face, realising only that the man before them was a daunting opponent. He fought with such speed and aggression that he held all four at bay. One, he killed with an astonishing backwards stroke that left Elorin gasping at the sheer audacity of it. She began to realise that during his fight with Hydar he had been restrained, expending no more effort than had been necessary to achieve his ends. Now his true abilities became apparent and she watched enthralled, completely fascinated by his mastery of the sword, his speed and power. Even as she watched, one of the Turog was not quick enough in defence and Celedorn’s heavy sword sliced effortlessly through its thick neck. Its head flew from its shoulders and for a moment it stood upright pumping a dark jet of blood from its severed neck before crashing to the ground.

  Suddenly, Elorin became aware of a danger to which her single-mindedness had rendered her oblivious. A small party of about a dozen Turog had broken through the semi-circle of men and was heading with determination for the bridge and the safety of the Forsaken Lands. Elorin stood directly in their path. She cast a despairing glance in Celedorn’s direction but he was fighting with his back turned towards her. She retreated before them and found herself trapped at the end of the bridge. They advanced towards her, curving swords drawn, yellow eyes cruel. She did the only thing she could do and retreated onto the bridge, at the same time she took a deep breath and screamed Celedorn’s name at the top of her voice.

  He heard her, for he turned briefly from his opponent to glance over his shoulder in her direction. Instantly he saw her plight. The Turog before him found its weapon ruthlessly smashed from its hand and the point of Celedorn’s sword driven into its chest. Jerking his sword free, Celedorn sprang for the bridge.

  Elorin had been driven half way across by now. The Turog, suddenly aware of Celedorn descending on them from the rear, stampeded in a body onto the bridge. In its weakened state it would not take their weight. A horrible rending groan issued from the structure. With a mighty cracking and splitting sound one of the supports on the northern end began to give way. The bridge shifted sickeningly and began to tilt. One of the Turog, thrown off balance, fell with a scream over the side and disappeared into the chasm. Celedorn reached the end of the bridge and ruthlessly cut down the Turog nearest him. Elorin was balanced precariously on the tilted bridge about three-quarters of the way across. A dozen terrified Turog stood between them. They all turned with one accord to retreat, only to find Celedorn barring their path. The sudden shifting of weight was too much for the injured support and with a terrific crack it gave up the struggle and plunged down into the ravine. The bridge instantly disintegrated, planks and spars flew apart and plummeted into the depths followed by all the wretched Turog. They screamed and bounced off the rocky sides before disappearing into a horrible silence, swallowed whole by the Gorge.


  Only the supports on the southern side, where Celedorn was standing, had held. Not for an instant had he thought of his own danger. His attention was riveted to Elorin. She had fallen with the Turog, as there was simply no bridge left beneath her to stand on, but because she was further across than they, she had managed to catch hold of the remaining spar which projected from the cliff, forlornly pointing into space with nothing left to support. In sheer terror she was now clinging to the end of it with both hands, her legs swinging in thin air over the void.

  Oblivious to the fight still going on behind him, Celedorn called to her urgently.

  “Elorin! Elorin! Get your legs up over the spar. Your arms will not hold you for ever. Hook your legs over the spar!”

  Dimly she seemed to hear him, for she turned a white, terrified face in his direction. He leaned out precariously far on the last fragile remnant of the bridge, trying to get in contact with her, trying to force her to heed him.

  “Elorin, swing your legs over the spar,” he repeated, raising his voice over the continuing sounds of battle. “You must try. You must do as I tell you.”

  Sobbing with fear, she tried to raise her legs upwards. The spar gave a jolt.

  “Oh no,” Celedorn whispered, “it’s going to give way.”

  He snatched up a rope which was still attached to his side of the bridge and cutting it with his sword, he swiftly coiled it.

  “Elorin, I’m going to toss you the end of the rope. You must let go of the spar with one hand in order to catch it. Do you understand?”

  “I can’t,” she wailed. “I can’t let go!”

  “You must. The spar is not strong enough to take your weight. You must catch the rope. Do you hear me?”

  She nodded, unable to speak, her blue eyes fixed on him in terror.

  “Don’t look at me, watch the end of the rope and catch it as it falls across the spar.”

  Carefully he poised himself on the outermost edge of the broken bridge and gently swung the rope. Skilfully, he cast it forward and it landed neatly across the spar near her hand. She snatched at it but it slid off just at the critical moment and she missed. Quickly she grabbed the spar again.

  “Celedorn,” she sobbed. “I’m going to fall.”

  “You won’t,” he shouted back fiercely. “Just do as I say. I’m going to throw the rope again and this time you are going to catch it.”

  “I can’t hold on much longer!”

  “You will catch it this time. Now concentrate!”

  With frantic haste he pulled in the rope. His gaze focused intensely on the portion of spar that he was aiming for and he prepared to throw again. But before he could do so, the spar gave another jolt and with a rending groan it broke free of its mounting. Elorin screamed as both she and the spar plunged into the abyss.

  Celedorn threw himself flat on the bridge, flinging his hands out in a futile attempt to catch her.

  She fell straight downwards, not striking the sides as the Turog had done, and plunged into the churning river far below.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Forsaken Lands

  Down and down she went, ever deeper into the roaring torrent. The swirling currents tumbled her over and over until she no longer knew which way up she was. Her collision with the water had knocked most of the breath out of her and she was desperate for air. The water roared in her ears and eyes, blinding and deafening her. Frantically she kicked out, her lungs bursting from want of air. Still the mighty Harnor rolled her over, plunging her deeper until she was sure she was going to die. But just when lack of oxygen had almost forced her to draw in a breath of the icy water, she briefly surfaced. She had just time to gasp in a mixture of air and spray before being thrust under again. The river was full of broken planks and spars from the bridge, all jostling about in the current, quite capable of delivering a blow that could kill. She struggled to the surface again, whirled and buffeted by the foam, in time to see a large plank bearing down on her. Taking another deep breath, she lunged for it as it passed. The wet wood slipped from her fingers but a sudden thrust of current brought the tail of it towards her again and she grasped it with both hands. The plank, caught by the current, careered off down the river, towing Elorin with it. It plummeted into hollows and reared onto the backs of waves. It was thrown crazily from side to side as waves hit the cliff walls and rebounded. Down the dark, sunless tunnel they were swept at terrifying speed. Once the end of the plank hit the cliff face with a crack that jarred her entire body and nearly caused her to let go. But she knew that the plank was the only thing that might save her from drowning and hung on with grim determination.

  The short vicious waves slapped and blinded her, forcing her to swallow large quantities of the river, but finally, just when she was sure she could hold on no longer, the river became quieter. It slid swiftly and silently between the towering walls of black stone, its surface dark and unbroken. Elorin dragged herself on top of the plank, allowing her legs to trail in the water, and lay there like one dead.

  Still the river carried her. With an almost dreamlike ease the walls slipped by. Pinnacles of rock swiftly approached and fell behind. The plank turned gently in the current. Sometimes she was facing forward, at others, back in the direction from which she had come; and all the time a sense of dreamlike unreality possessed her, as swiftly and smoothly the miles slipped by. She lay on the plank sodden and exhausted, too battered to care what happened.

  At last the plank got caught in an eddy that swirled it smoothly into a little bay. When it bumped to a halt, Elorin opened her eyes with a jerk. She was in a little sandy bay on the northward side of the river. The bay was filled with branches, planks and logs - obviously a depository of anything swept down by the river. Sliding off the plank, she found the water was only knee-deep. She had to clamber over many bleached trunks to reach the shore but when she felt the solid ground beneath her feet, her legs gave way under her and she fell onto the reassuring solidity of the sand, digging her fingers into it as if she couldn’t believe that she was safe.

  After a while she took stock of her surroundings and began to realise that her sense of relief was a little premature. She was on the northern side of the river at the edge of the Forsaken Lands. Here the cliffs had lowered to form a long slope covered with trees that descended directly to the edge of the river. On the opposite side, the Eskendrian side, the cliffs rose in all their towering majesty, unbroken, unscalable, their feet sunk in the swirling Harnor.

  She was cold and shivering convulsively, her clothes soaked and dripping with icy river water. In her fear, she hadn’t noticed it before, but now she became aware of just how chilled she had become. She wrung what water she could out of her tunic and took stock of her situation. She was alone in the Forsaken Lands with no way of crossing the river, no food and no possessions - other than soaking wet clothes. Worst of all, she had no idea how to get to safety.

  Her head sank in despair. Icy droplets ran down her face from her wet hair.

  “What am I to do?” she groaned softly. “No one even knows I am here. Even Celedorn probably thinks I am dead.”

  As another bout of shivering shook her, the only thing she knew for certain was that if she didn’t get her clothes dried out before nightfall, she would perish of cold.

  The cliffs on the southern side were casting long, dark shadows over the part of the forest she was in, but when she looked up, she discovered to her surprise that far above her the sky was still blue and the sun shining. If she climbed higher through the trees away from the river and the shadow of the cliffs, she might find a sunny glade where she could get dry.

  She left the beach and began to scramble up the steep bank to the trees. The bank was overhung with a shaggy shawl of brambles and she had a rather painful struggle to get through them. An ominous rending sound informed her that she had torn her tunic. She burst free of their clinging embrace, paying with no more than a long scratch on her arm.

  “If only it had been autumn, I might at
least have got some blackberries from them,” she muttered, aware that she was becoming hungry.

  What appeared to be a track made by animals threaded upwards through the gloomy trees. Soon the whisper of the river was left behind and the silence of the forest closed around her. She remembered what Celedorn had said about the Forsaken Lands and began to realise that he had been correct. The place was suffused with a sense of brooding watchfulness. She saw nothing. Not a bird nor an animal. But she found herself looking over her shoulder, unable to shake off the feeling that something might be creeping up behind her.

  After about half an hour of cold, damp walking she emerged from the shadow cast by the cliff into filtered sunshine seeping shyly between the leaves. By the position of the sun she judged it to be mid-afternoon. Finally she found what she had been looking for - a grassy, sunlit glade between the trees. As she entered it, the sense of oppression felt amongst the trees, lifted and she turned up her face to the patch of blue sky above. Wild flowers grew in the sheltered warmth and white butterflies flitted between them, their wings bright in the mellow, drowsy sunshine. She headed for what she thought was a fallen tree-trunk in the middle of the glade but closer inspection revealed that it was stone and had, moreover, been shaped by the hand of man. The old stone obelisk lay on its side half hidden by the long grass. Rows of curling symbols had once been carved on its side but the centuries had weathered them to indistinct ridges and hollows blurred by mosses and lichens. She ran her fingers over the carvings and thought that she could detect some of the symbols of the old language but they were too indistinct to be sure. Somehow she was comforted by the evidence of the presence of man. The old stone was warm to the touch and taking off her tunic and breeches, she draped them over it to dry, then curled up on the grass in the sunshine. She unplaited her hair and spreading it across the wild flowers to dry, surrendered to the warmth and the drowsy hum of the bees in the flowers.