The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  Celedorn was seated a short distance away, watching her with an intensity that excluded all else. But just as she was unaware of his eyes upon her, so he too was oblivious to the fact that he was being narrowly observed. The Prince had seen the direction of Celedorn’s gaze and was so taken aback by the look of tender longing on his face that he scarcely recognised him.

  He nudged Relisar who was sitting beside him. “It appears that you were right, old friend,” he murmured.

  Relisar looked up at Celedorn and looked quickly away again, as if ashamed of having intruded on so intimate a moment.

  “I fear it is true,” he mumbled into his beard. “I had hoped, somehow, that I was wrong.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Battle of the Cleft

  They soon left behind the forest with its open, sunny glades, and emerged once more upon the grassy downs. The sun still shone out of a forget-me-not sky but the wind had arisen, sending a fresh breeze rippling across the grass, playfully tugging strands of Elorin’s hair free from its plait and tossing Triana’s loose curls into golden disorder. Relisar’s long beard kept blowing into his eyes, giving rise to much mutterings and growls of discontent.

  Andarion and Celedorn stood together on the crest of one of the downs which arose like a great unbroken green wave, and surveyed the land southwards. As far as the eye could see, the great undulating sea of grass continued until it met some darker object on the horizon, which might have been hills or a forest. Even Celedorn’s acute eyesight could not distinguish the feature at such a distance.

  “More open downland,” sighed the Prince.

  “It reminds me of the Meadowlands, but on a much larger scale. However, it can’t be avoided without an extensive detour and time is pressing. It is now almost mid-summer and if it is our aim is to be back in Eskendria by early autumn, we will have to trust to luck once again.”

  “At least nothing else seems to be out there,”

  “Not at the moment, but we must make what speed we can. I suggest that if we get a clear night, we should continue during the hours of darkness.”

  Andarion nodded. “It will be hard on Triana but it must be done.”

  “I notice that you did not say that it would be hard on Elorin.”

  “Elorin is enjoying herself. Anyone can see that.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Celedorn noncommittally, unwilling to discuss Elorin with the Prince.

  Andarion tactfully let the matter go and followed him down to join the others.

  For two days and nights they travelled across the plain. The immensity of the landscape, the impression of a never-ending green ocean looking up at an infinite blue sky, made the company seem tiny and insignificant in comparison, crawling across the face of the earth like minute ants. The lack of landmarks made the journey seem slow and there were times when they began to wonder if they were making any progress at all. Travelling at night made the feeling worse, for the dark plain and the starlit sky vaulting above it, merged into one endless immensity. However, just as dawn was breaking on the third day, a feature that had not been visible to them during the hours of darkness came into view. A strange little round hill arose from the plain, clothed in the ubiquitous grass, but its uneven crown suggested it bore some sort of structure. The clear light made it seem close but it took several hours of walking to reach it. Closer inspection revealed the ruins of a small fort or tower. Little was now left standing, except low fragments of grey walls, their once jagged edges worn smooth by centuries of rain, frost and sun. Standing incongruously by itself, was one beautiful, pointed arch. At its base, protected from the elements by a jutting ledge, was carved lettering in the old language: very old but still legible.

  ‘Tarlin Cor’merendel’ ran the legend.

  Relisar translated: “The hill of the skylarks,” he cried excitedly. “Merendel means ‘lark’ in the old language. Don’t you see what this means? We are travelling in the footsteps of Tissro the Wanderer. On his last journey, before he disappeared, he described crossing a great plain of grass covered with streaming herds of the High King’s horses. He reached the watchtower of Tarlin Cor’merendel, where the horse-guardians gave him food and a bed for the night. He was on his way to the royal city of Korem, which must lie somewhere to the south of here.”

  Elorin, who had been standing with her head cocked to one side, obviously only half listening to him, held up her hand for silence. “Listen.”

  As Relisar’s voice died away, they all heard it: the throaty, joyful sound of tiny skylarks singing so high in the blue air that they were out of sight.

  “They are still here,” concluded Relisar with satisfaction. “The birds that gave this place its name.”

  Andarion was more prosaic. “These broken walls at least give us some cover, and we have a fine view over the plains so that we cannot be taken unawares. Perhaps we should rest here for a while.”

  They settled themselves amongst the grey stones, now touched by the warmth of the sun as it climbed steadily higher into a flawless sky. Triana curled up beside Andarion, who was already asleep with his back propped against the base of the arch, but Elorin, ever curious, sat down beside Relisar and asked what had become of Tissro.

  “No one knows, my dear. He set out on his last journey into the north, through the province ruled by the House of Parth and simply vanished never to return. The High King sent out men to search for him, for his writings were revered even then, but no trace of him was ever found. Then war broke out with the Destroyer and in the chaos and death, and passing of many things, Tissro’s fate was forgotten.” He paused, musing for a moment. “The old man that Tissro encountered by the gates of the city of Korem, told Tissro that through him the key would be found.”

  “The key?”

  “I think he meant the key that will unlock the riddle of the Champion’s names. You see, he has four names and we know only one - Erren-dar, the one bestowed upon him in the Book of Light. I must discover the other names if ever I am to attempt the summoning spell again. It occurs to me, that perhaps by travelling in Tissro’s footsteps, the answer to the riddle may be found.”

  Celedorn, who had been listening to the conversation while sharpening his knife, gave something perilously close to a snort of derision. Tender-hearted Triana looked anxiously at Relisar to see if he had been offended, but he was staring absently into space and gave no indication that he had even heard the sound.

  Seeing that Relisar had mentally, if not physically, left her, Elorin lay back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face, listening to the soft whisper of the tall fronds of grass brushing the ancient stone and the joyous sound of the larks.

  “Celedorn?” she murmured sleepily, without opening her eyes. “Are you standing watch?”

  “Looks like it,” came the dry response. “Everyone is asleep except Relisar, who is off in some world of his own. A whole battalion of Turog could pass before his eyes and he wouldn’t see them.”

  Elorin smiled drowsily. “Yes, but the advantage is that you get the chance to play the martyr.”

  She heard his soft chuckle and the resumption of the rhythmic, strangely comforting sound of his hunting knife against the whetstone, before she sank into sleep.

  When she awoke, the afternoon was old, the light growing mellow as the exhausted sun sank towards its rest. The others were still asleep, but Celedorn was standing by the stone arch with his back turned towards her, looking intently across the plain in the direction from which they had come. She didn’t need to see his face to tell that he was uneasy about something. Arising silently, she crossed to him and lightly touched his arm.

  “What do you see?” she whispered.

  “Nothing. It’s just a feeling. I think it would be better if we left this place very soon.”

  “It’s not that old feeling of being watched, is it?” she asked in some alarm.

  “No, this is different. Sometimes in the Westrin Mountains, when we were hunting Turog who had crossed the river
, I would get this feeling - call it an instinct - that they were somewhere close. It was seldom wrong.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” she declared. “I’ll wake the others.”

  Their companions had by this time learned to heed Celedorn’s instincts and packed up quickly. Relisar contributed only a token grumble or two about not being fed.

  “We’ll eat later, old friend,” said the Prince. “If Celedorn wishes to leave this hill, then I for one have no wish to delay.”

  They reached the bottom of the hill just as the sun disappeared and a purple twilight drew like a dim veil across the grassland. Celedorn, who had lingered for a moment on the summit, came bounding down after them.

  “It’s as I thought,” he said shortly. “From the top of the hill I can see torches in the distance. The twilight makes it difficult to assess how far away they are, but what is certain is that they are coming this way. We will have to put on great speed to be out of sight on this open plain.”

  “The darkness will help,” suggested Andarion.

  “Yes, if it had been daylight, escape would have been impossible.”

  They hurried forward into the gathering night. Without the vantage-point of the hill, the torches could not be seen but their very invisibility magnified the threat behind them, making it seem relentlessly menacing.

  They moved so swiftly that Triana, so much shorter than the rest, found herself forced to run to keep up. Even Relisar, for all his age, trotted along quickly, daydreams forgotten.

  At last, looking back through the darkness, they caught sight of the torches - lights like fireflies, moving strangely high above the horizon.

  Andarion accounted for this phenomenon. “They are on top of the hill. They have found the place where we rested.”

  Triana watched the pinpricks of light fearfully. “But we left no trace. I mean, we didn’t light a fire or leave any sign of our presence.”

  “The grass will be flattened where we lay down,” replied Celedorn grimly, “and also they will smell us.”

  “Smell us!” repeated Triana disbelievingly.

  The Prince explained: “They have a more acute sense of smell than humans. They may very well pick up our scent. Do you think they will be able to track us, Celedorn?”

  “It’s possible. We have the advantage of the wind being behind us, but these long grasses will have been pressed down by our passage. It may be enough for them to read. We must gain as much distance as we can during the night, for daylight will not prove our friend.”

  Dawn unfortunately proved him correct. After an exhausting night travelling virtually without a break, they crested one of the gentle, rolling grass hills and looked back just as the first gleams of light began to creep stealthily across the plain behind them. At first there was no sign of life. The tower was long out of sight and nothing appeared to mar the uniform emptiness of the scene. Triana and Relisar both sighed with relief and sank down on the earth. Triana had been running all night to keep up with the others and was pale and exhausted. But Andarion and Celedorn stood silently for a long time looking back, neither entirely easy in his mind. Finally, Celedorn turned to look to the south and was amazed by what he saw. The indistinct feature which he had been unable to identify a few days before, was now startlingly clear in the pale morning light. A huge escarpment of brown stone rose out of the plain like the ramparts of a gigantic fortress. It ran like a mighty wall as far as the eye could see, both to east and west, rising sheer from the plain below up to a flat-topped plateau far above. Buzzards whirled and circled across its face, their ragged wing-tips making them easily identifiable. The feature was still too distant to be able to distinguish if there was any way of scaling its face, but if not, it effectively barred their way south.

  Andarion had turned by this time, and was surveying the wall disapprovingly. He noticed that the plain washed up to the foot of the cliffs like a green tide, with no cover other than the gentle hollows behind the rolling crests.

  “How far, do you think?” he asked Celedorn.

  “Ten, maybe twelve miles.” He looked at Triana sitting on the ground, her head hanging forward. “She’ll never make it without a rest.”

  “There will be no rest, my friend,” Andarion replied gravely. “Look!”

  Celedorn glanced behind him, in the direction of Andarion’s pointing finger. Across the previously empty plain, a band of black dots could be seen rapidly moving down the slope of one of the grassy crests. They were travelling slightly to the west of the company and some considerable distance behind. Suddenly their progress halted and their path turned abruptly eastward.

  “They have seen us,” Celedorn said urgently. “We must move on.”

  “Will we reach the escarpment before them?”

  Celedorn glanced towards Triana and lowered his voice. “If it were just you, Elorin and myself, I would unhesitatingly say yes, but with the other two, especially Triana who is already tired, well......” his voice trailed off expressively.

  The Prince screwed up his eyes against the brightening light. “The escarpment may not be our salvation, it is more likely to prove a trap if there is no way of climbing it, but as there appears to be no way around it, we must take our chances.”

  The others had by this time seen the danger and were on their feet again. Elorin took Triana’s pack from her.

  “I’ll take this for a while,” she said kindly, “because you are going to have to summon up your best speed again.” But the Prince, seeing the gesture, insisted on relieving Elorin of the extra burden.

  Once again they set out, running for short distances, then dropping to a walk for a while before running again. Much to Celedorn’s surprise, Triana managed to keep going for quite a long time, but in the heat of mid-afternoon he suddenly felt his arm caught by Elorin.

  “Triana has fallen behind,” she panted. “Don’t be angry with her. She has really tried her best.”

  As he turned back towards Triana, her faltering footsteps ceased and she sank to the ground, gasping for breath, her forehead damp with perspiration.

  She looked up nervously as he approached, expecting to be berated for her failure but instead she found herself ruthlessly scooped up into his arms.

  “You cannot carry me, Celedorn,” she protested. “I’m too heavy.”

  “You weigh nothing,” he responded. “Now, if I had to carry Elorin, that would be a different matter.”

  She gave an astonished gasp of laughter. “Elorin is very slender.”

  “Yes, but there is a lot more of her than you in the vertical sense.”

  Her smile faded. “Forgive me.”

  He looked surprised. “You did your best, besides we are close to the escarpment now. There will be no more running once we reach it.”

  To avoid staring at his scars, now so close to her, Triana glanced back over his shoulder. “They are gaining on us. They are only about a mile behind us now. They are packed so closely together that I still can’t distinguish their numbers, but there are many of them.” She peered intently for a moment, then said: “There is something different about them, I mean, different to the ordinary Turog. They are taller, straighter, definitely there is something different.”

  By the time they reached the foot of the escarpment, Triana insisted on being set on her feet again, clearly impressed that Celedorn had experienced no difficulty in keeping up with the others, though heavily burdened. Their pursuers, however, were steadily gaining. A faint yell of triumph echoed across the silent plain, which seemed to suggest that the Turog considered their quarry to be trapped by the escarpment.

  It seemed as if they were right. The brown walls rose out of the lapping grass, smooth, ledgeless and unscalable.

  The Prince leaned backwards, scanning the rock face in despair. “Now what?” he asked. “I take it we must fight them. Ah well, we had worse odds in the forest, after all.”

  “These are Red Turog,” Celedorn objected.

  “Red Turog?”


  “You have not come across them? They are a different breed; red skinned, taller than the average Turog, more manlike and the devil of a sight more cunning when it comes to a fight.”

  “I have not heard of Red Turog.”

  “Possibly not. There are not many of them, and as far as I know, they have never crossed the Harnor. I have encountered them only once, during one of my rare excursions across the river. Beware of them in a fight, for they do not have the limited intelligence of the common Turog. Treat them as if you were fighting a man.” He looked up at the forbidding cliff face. “There must surely be some way of getting up this damned wall. We will try further east. You go on ahead to see what you can find. I’ll bring up the rear.”

  The others needed no urging. While Triana and Relisar tried to keep up with Andarion, Elorin lingered behind, an arrow fitted to her bow, ready to give cover to Celedorn.

  Just as the light was beginning to fail, Andarion rounded a mighty buttress of stone to finally find what he was looking for. A waterfall, spilling over the lip of the plateau, had cut a sharp ‘V’-like cleft deeply angled into the rock face. By virtue of the fact that it was summer and the weather had been dry, the stream had completely dried, leaving behind it the damp stair-like crevasse it had hewn over the centuries.

  Triana and Relisar close behind him, found themselves ruthlessly propelled up the cleft by the normally courteous Prince. Once he saw them begin the ascent, he dropped down from the rocks in search of Celedorn and Elorin. He reached the buttress just as they came flying round it, scrambling over the rocks in their haste.

  “Elorin brought down two of them with her bow,” Celedorn informed him tersely, “but the rest are close behind us, as angry as a swarm of hornets.”

  “I’ve found a way up,” Andarion interrupted, wasting no words, and swiftly led them to the cleft.

  Triana and Relisar were far above them now, climbing the almost step-like ledges of the dried-up waterfall. Pushing Elorin and the Prince before him, Celedorn immediately sprang up the rocks.