by R. J. Grieve
Relisar looked at her with pity. “We must take her with us,” he said to the Prince. Elorin nodded her agreement but Celedorn exploded.
“Why don’t you just hire trumpeters and lead a procession, so that the Destroyer can find us more easily! How many other waifs and strays are we going to gather up while we are here? Every extra person increases the chance of discovery. I think that not one of you has the slightest idea of what we are dealing with!”
“Celedorn.......” Elorin began, but he cut her short.
“No!” He turned on his heel and strode from the hall.
She looked at Triana. “Don’t worry,” she said kindly. “I’ll talk him round. The rest of you wait here. Perhaps you should pack up your things, Triana, ready to leave. After all you have told us, I would not spend the night here for anything.”
When she had gone, Triana looked towards the archway through which Celedorn had disappeared. “Why did you call him ‘Brigand’ ?” she asked Andarion. “Surely he is not.....I mean.....surely he couldn’t be.......”
The Prince nodded. “I’m afraid he is. I would not spend a moment in his company if we were not in the direst circumstances. We have unfinished business, he and I, if ever we get to Eskendria. Now, come and we will collect your belongings.”
When they returned to the main hall, Celedorn and Elorin were still missing. Relisar was seated on the block of masonry, calmly reading a book. He looked up as they came back.
“I think Elorin is finding the task more difficult than she expected.” He waved the book at the Prince. “How would you translate this word, Andarion?” he asked, pointing to his page, as single-minded as always. Andarion sighed with resignation. While they were immersed in the finer nuances of the old language, Triana, gaining confidence from their presence, began to prowl around the hall, looking closely at the glass figures. When she came to the Queen sitting at the head of the table, her long hand held out in rebuff, she gingerly reached out and touched one cold glass finger.
Suddenly, with a splintering, cracking sound, the glass hand snapped shut on her wrist. Triana shrieked with fear and the two men whirled in her direction. What they saw caused Relisar’s book to fall unheeded to the floor. She was desperately struggling to escape the vicelike grasp, but her frantic efforts just resulted in the glass fingers slowly tightening until her hand began to turn an alarming purple. Her scream had also brought Celedorn and Elorin charging through the archway. Before they could react, cracking and fracturing noises began to issue the length of the stone table, as each seated figure slowly turned its cold, glass head towards Triana. Her hand by this time felt as if it was going to burst, as the icy fingers froze into her flesh. When the Queen’s head began to turn towards her, Triana’s terror was so intense she almost fainted.
Andarion, only a few paces from her, recovered his wits and strode forward drawing his sword. The blade gleamed as he raised it in the air and with all his strength, brought it down on the transparent arm that held Triana prisoner. The blow contacted with the glass with such force that it jolted him to the shoulder. For a moment he thought that it had no effect, but a hairline crack began to appear and shot through the glass wrist. The Queen turned her cold, empty gaze in his direction and began to rise from her chair. Splinters of glass flew from her, as her robe broke free of the stone, scattering with a tinkling sound to the floor. The hairline fissure in her arm shot in a circle right round her wrist, and with a crack like a rock splitting, it broke off, still clamped tight to Triana’s wrist. Triana, suddenly released, fell backwards onto the floor and stared in disbelief as the dismembered glass hand began to disintegrate before her eyes. Rapidly it began to turn to sand, until only a small mound of white grains was left. A trickle of sand was also flowing from the Queen’s severed wrist. Like something unravelling, it gradually worked up her arm as the glass returned to its natural state. All along the stone table the same thing was happening. Every extremity was dissolving. Hair, fingers, feet, all losing form and shape. Faster and faster the sands flowed off the clear figures, as if from an hourglass running out of time. Millions of snow-white grains gathered on the floor and the stone chairs, the piles growing as the figures diminished.
Triana leaped to her feet, frantically brushing the sand off her as if it was poisoned. “They’re falling to dust!” she cried hysterically. “They’re falling to dust!”
The others stood staring transfixed, until nothing remained but desolate piles of white grains. The Queen was the last to fully dissolve. As her head and face disintegrated, her pointed crown fell onto the chair with a clatter and sat glistening coldly on the heap of sand.
“The crown stayed intact,” Andarion said, scarcely above a whisper.
“Her crown was always made of glass,” Relisar replied. “It alone was not the work of the Destroyer.” As Andarion leaned towards it in fascination, he added a warning: “Do not touch it. Touch nothing in this accursed place. Come, we must leave before worse befalls us. The evil here is not just of the Destroyer. She used the ancient arts of the House of Parth, and this shows what comes of power that is not derived from the Father of Light.” He looked around nervously. “We may have awoken here even more than is evident.”
Needing no further persuasion, they hastily gathered up their belongings and left. Their departure was so precipitate, that they never discovered whether Elorin had persuaded Celedorn to allow Triana to come or not. Her presence was somehow just tacitly accepted.
When they stepped through the great archway into the outside world again, the sea-mist still swirled forlornly around the grey ruins. Following Pelgar’s directions, they headed inland, up what appeared, as far as they could tell, to be a steep, grassy valley.
The Prince fell into step beside Triana. “Does your hand still pain you?”
She smiled. “No, it’s fine now, although my arm is sore and bruised,” she replied, directing a dark look at Celedorn’s back. “I’m just glad to have found human company again.”
“King Orovin will be worried about you,” Andarion suggested. “Is your betrothal of recent date? I had not heard he was contemplating marriage.”
“It was very sudden. I have never met the King, but my father told me I must marry him to seal an alliance between our two countries. I......I realise that it would be a great thing to be queen of a county as rich and powerful as Serendar, but I had hoped that when the time came, I might chose for myself.”
“Surely your father would not force you!”
“No, but he spoke at length of my responsibility to my country and that duty sometimes means sacrificing one’s personal wishes for the greater good. I love my father, and do not wish to disappoint him. In any event, I didn’t have much time to think things over, because I was packed off in the ship almost immediately the treaty was signed.”
The Prince’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “When was this?”
She told him and a quick mental calculation informed him that while King Orovin was suggesting that Eskendria should persuade Kelendore to re-forge the old alliance, he had already secured such an alliance for himself. The Prince, inwardly vowing vengeance, realised he had been made a fool of.
As they moved inland, they left behind the sound of the sea, which had been their constant accompaniment for so long now. They also gradually parted company with the mist and their surroundings became more visible.
The valley they were following lay in a gentle fold of rolling downs, covered in short, tough grass interspersed with clumps of clover, daisies and vetch. Here and there outcrops of limestone broke through the thin covering of soil. There were no trees, other than a few stunted thorn bushes bent double by the prevailing winds, and utterly no cover of any kind. Such openness made Celedorn uneasy, and during the next few days, as they travelled over the rounded hills and shallow, slightly marshy valleys, this feeling was transmitted to them all, so that they walked in silence, scanning each new horizon for danger. However, they saw not a soul, not a living thing - other th
an some rabbits, one of which Celedorn caught, providing a welcome relief from austere rations. Elorin gathered wild thyme and sage from the limestone outcrops and produced a tasty stew.
One night they camped beside an escarpment of grey stone, at the foot of which a little spring spilled from a horizontal crack in the rock. It chuckled its way between lush banks of watercress, reminding Elorin of the stream in the Meadowlands where she and Celedorn had bathed their feet - an event that seemed an exceedingly long time ago.
As darkness fell, the fire was extinguished. As they settled down in their blankets for the night, Elorin made the discovery that Celedorn was missing.
‘Typical!’ she thought. ‘He tells me off for what he does himself!’
She lay down again, assuming there was a natural reason for his absence but when he still had not returned some time later, she silently arose and tiptoeing between the sleeping figures, went in search of him. She hadn’t far to go, for she had scarcely taken a dozen paces when she almost collided with him in the dark.
“What are you doing, Elorin?” he asked sharply.
“Looking for you. Where on earth have you been all this time?”
“Sssh, keep your voice down.” He took her arm and guided her away from the camp. “I’ve been up on top of the escarpment to get a better view of the surrounding countryside. From the top you can see the downs rolling off into the distance, until they meet some dark feature which might be a line of trees. Just as the light was beginning to fade and I was thinking of coming down again, I saw something - a line of lights travelling along the top of one of the ridges. It was difficult to be certain, but I’m pretty sure they were torches. They were not heading this way, but our course southwards will take us towards them tomorrow.”
“Turog?”
“I assume so. The distance was too great to see who or what was carrying the torches. I’ll be glad when we reach the trees and get away from these bare hills.”
“Should we make a detour?”
“No, I don’t think it’s necessary. They were moving westwards towards the coast. I watched them for some time and if they keep up their present pace and direction, they will be well out of sight by morning.”
“This place is not as empty as it seems.”
“The Forsaken Lands are never empty, I told you that once before.” He jerked his head towards the camp. “They assume that because we have not yet met anything hostile, that such things do not exist. Such complacence is sheer folly. We would have done better without them.”
“You are certainly consistent on that point, if on nothing else.”
She caught the flash of white teeth in the darkness.
“That’s your one saving grace,” she declared ruefully. “A sense of humour.”
He was disappointed. “Only one?”
“Be grateful. Neither the Prince nor Triana would credit you with any - hardly surprising given the way you behave towards them. The only one who might have a kind word for you is Relisar.”
“And what, pray, have I done to offend Triana?”
“Scared her half to death.”
Even in the darkness she could see his scorn. “She is easily frightened. You had far more to fear from me at Ravenshold and I don’t recall you making as much fuss as she does.”
“No, but I am not the daughter of the Lord Protector, used to being treated only with courtesy and consideration. I have come to the conclusion that I must be some fisherman’s daughter. That would explain why I am so at home by the sea, and why I can catch fish and cook and other such mundane things.”
“You forget, you are well-educated and can speak the old language. No fisherman’s daughter could do that.” When she didn’t reply, he added: “You feel it puts you further from him than ever?”
She nodded.
“You are no fisherman’s daughter, Elorin. Your features are too fine, your bearing and manners too graceful.”
“Careful, Celedorn,” she warned. “That came perilously close to a compliment.”
“I leave compliments to your Prince.” He paused, his mind dwelling on the Prince. “He....he is not what I expected. It’s a pity I cannot forget that he is his father’s son.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” he said abruptly. She sensed him withdraw from her, unwilling to explain himself and wary of being questioned further. “You had better get some sleep. I will remain on watch.”
She accepted her dismissal and returned to her blankets. This was not the first time that she had suspected that Celedorn harboured some sort of personal grudge against King Tharin, but she had no idea what it could be or even how such a thing might have arisen. She was glad that Celedorn’s antipathy towards the Prince was a least becoming a little equivocal.
Her relief, however, was unfortunately premature, for it was the hostility between the two men that nearly resulted in disaster for the entire company.
Morning revealed no sign of the Turog, and swiftly the company crossed the undulating downs, heading with determination towards the dark line of trees that grew closer with every rise they crested. Once amongst the trees, Celedorn appeared to relax a little, now feeling that he was in his natural habitat.
The wood was composed solely of mighty oak trees, their gnarled trunks of impressive girth, and their spreading branches meeting overhead to form a continuous canopy. Their ancient roots twisted and writhed over earth innocent of any undergrowth, increasing the impression of a great, many-pillared hall. A light breeze had sprung up, wafting cool air amongst the trees, setting their leaves aflutter. The ground continued to undulate beneath the forest, creating shallow tree-filled hollows and gentle ridges.
As the day progressed towards evening, they had just found a suitable place to make camp for the night, when Triana incurred Celedorn’s displeasure. While Elorin quested around looking for dry firewood, Triana sat idly on her pack and rested.
Celedorn frowned his forbidding frown. “Triana,” he said sharply, “make yourself useful. You are not in the royal court at Kelendore now. Go and help Elorin.”
She looked up, startled, as always intimidated by him. Her frightened expression was not lost on the Prince and aroused his protective instincts. Rather unwisely he retaliated on her behalf.
“Do not speak to her in that tone. I don’t know what kind of women you are used to dealing with, but Triana is gently born and should be treated with courtesy.”
The provocation was readily accepted. Celedorn raised his brows sardonically. “Indeed? You wish perhaps to give me a lesson in manners?”
“You certainly need one,” snapped Andarion, the bit now well and truly between his teeth.
Celedorn laughed contemptuously. “Surely you would not soil your noble sword on a common brigand like me? Or is it possible that you fight your battles with words, like your father.”
The Prince’s face grew rigid with anger. “How dare you speak of my father in that manner. Who, pray, was your father? Or perhaps I ask what is not in your power to answer.”
In response, Celedorn’s scars flushed an ugly purple and a look of sheer malevolence crossed his face. Elorin dropped the wood she was carrying, but this time she was too late to intervene. In unison, two swords scraped clear of their scabbards.
“Oh no!” gasped Elorin.
“The Prince will teach him civility,” Triana said smugly.
But Elorin did not share her confidence. “No, he won’t,” she declared with conviction.
The blades clashed together. The Prince at once gave a skilful twist of the wrist in an old trick to disarm his opponent, but Celedorn was not caught by such a move and deftly flicked his blade above the Prince’s and drove his sword downwards until the hilts crossed. Although they were much of a height, Celedorn was more powerfully built - although lean enough to command both speed and suppleness. Andarion guessed that he would not win a confrontation of brute strength, and disengaged. He instantly brought his sword sweeping upwards in an auda
cious stroke that should have caught his adversary off balance, but was instead countered as if it was expected.
The Prince had been well taught and did not lack skill or courage, moreover he fought intelligently, rarely relying on force alone, but it began to become apparent that he was not of the same calibre as his opponent. Celedorn’s sheer speed and agility left those watching, gasping with fear for the Prince. His powers of anticipation were such that Andarion began to wonder if the man facing him had some uncanny ability to read his mind. Rapidly the Prince was being driven to his limits. He was forced continually on the defensive, as Celedorn’s lightning aggression took him to within a hairsbreadth of breaking through his guard. Yet Elorin, watching closely, suspected that Celedorn was holding back a trifle, not yet exerting his full abilities against the Prince.
‘He doesn’t mean to kill him,’ she thought suddenly. ‘He means to humiliate him.’
Celedorn had now taken a double-handed grip on the hilt of his weapon, and was putting shocking power behind his blows, forcing the Prince to retreat step by step.
It was at this critical moment that an interruption of a dangerous and unexpected nature occurred. Clearly audible above the fight, there came the sound of a hollow thud. Instantly, Celedorn identified the sound, and even before the others could call a warning, he disengaged from the Prince and spun around to attack the snarling Turog that had dropped out of the tree behind him. More thuds sounded as more and more Turog plumped down out of the trees, their curved swords already in their hands, their yellow eyes filled with the lust to kill.
Ignoring the others, they instantly attacked Celedorn and Andarion. Relisar put his arm protectively around Triana and drew her back out of the way, but Elorin ran to her pack and grabbed her bow. She fitted an arrow and swiftly drew it back to her shoulder. She could hardly miss at such short range, and instantly one of the Turog fell with an arrow embedded in its back. The two men, taller than the bowlegged Turog, were surrounded by a seething mass of snarling grey bodies. The scene resembled two stags mobbed by a writhing mass of hounds. Their swords flashed and rang as they clashed with the Turog’s curved weapons. Celedorn brought his blade downwards in a mighty double-handed blow that cleaved straight through one of the Turog’s steel helmets right down to the jaw bone. Swiftly disengaging, he reversed his grip on the hilt, and stabbed it backwards with deadly accuracy into the belly of an opponent directly behind him. Relisar, who had been anxiously watching him, was under the impression that he had not even looked behind him. He seemed to be operating purely on instinct.
