by R. J. Grieve
“Quickly!” he commanded. “We must gain height.”
Just as the sun began to abandon them in a welter of saffron glory, the band of Turog rounded the buttress, tightly packed together and going at the double.
The company, deep in the dark cleft untouched by the sun, all froze into immobility as if of one accord.
Relisar and Triana were quite high up the cleft and had an excellent view downwards towards the others crouched some distance below them, and beyond to the plain.
The Turog remained tightly grouped and wary following their encounter with Elorin’s bow. Clearly they were expecting an ambush. At first they did not see the figures poised above them in the dark fissure, but having rounded the far pier of rock, which yielded an extensive view along the next stretch of escarpment, they realised that their prey had somehow given them the slip. They came back, suspicious and snarling.
They were close enough now for their brick-red skins and yellow eyes to be clearly seen. They stood straighter than the common Turog and their legs were less bowed, but this rather manlike impression was instantly dispelled when they dropped on all fours, in typical Turog fashion, and began to sniff the air. One quested forward eagerly, obviously having picked up a scent. The others followed in a ravening pack, moving directly towards the cleft. When they reached the cliff foot, they stood upright again and tilted their heads back. From the gloom of the deep crack, Elorin could see the last of the fading light glinting on their yellow, slanted eyes and the sharp fangs filling their wide mouths.
Suddenly, one of them yelled something in their ugly language and pointed upwards.
They had been seen.
Elorin stood up, bracing her feet on a ledge and fitted an arrow to her bow. She had only six left in her quiver.
The Turog drew their curved knives and holding them in their teeth, began to climb, scrambling upwards on all fours with terrifying speed.
As Elorin drew back the string to her shoulder, Celedorn’s voice spoke quietly in her ear.
“Steady now. Let them come a little closer.”
A cruel face appeared above one of the rock ledges.
“Now!” commanded Celedorn.
An arrow sprang from the bow with such force that it almost unbalanced her, but her aim was true and the arrow thudded into the creature’s forehead between the eyes. It looked mildly surprised for a moment, before toppling backwards past its comrades.
Andarion and Celedorn had by now picked up any loose rocks that came to hand, and were hurling a barrage down on their struggling foe. Yet still they climbed with tiresome persistence. Andarion hit one full in the face with a heavy stone and watched in satisfaction as it fell, but their supply of loose stones had run out and Elorin’s arrows were all exhausted.
Celedorn drew his knife. “This will be close work,” he called to Andarion, who had done likewise. “No room for swords up here. Elorin, climb above us.”
She had barely passed the men, when the Turog launched their attack. There was neither the time nor the room, within the precarious confines of the steep cleft, for tactics or finesse. This was a bitter hand-to-hand struggle for survival. One of the Turog, climbing up to attack Celedorn, received his boot in its face. He did not wear heavy, nailed boots like the Turog, only light riding ones, but the blow was delivered with all the force of a powerful thigh behind it. It connected with the bones of its face with a revolting crunch. It screamed with pain but somehow prevented itself from falling, and tried to stab Celedorn in the leg. He was not disconcerted, but swept the wickedly-sharp blade of his hunting knife under its helmet, slicing through an artery with clinical efficiency.
The Prince, too, had buried the long blade of his knife in the guts of an opponent and was twisting mercilessly. The Turog, knowing that it was doomed, tried to pull him down off the cliff face along with it. It clutched his arm and swung outwards with all of its considerable weight. Andarion snatched his knife free and grabbed a handhold in the rock just as his balance tipped outwards. The two hung forwards over the void, precariously held by Andarion’s single-handed grip on the rock. Still the creature hung on, its weight dragging the Prince downwards, until with an ominous ripping sound, the sleeve of the Prince’s shirt tore right out of its shoulder and the Turog fell, clutching its worthless prize.
Elorin, tensely watching the fight from above, unexpectedly found Triana at her elbow. She was carefully holding up the tail of her shirt in which were several large rocks.
Elorin grinned in triumph. “Excellent,” she declared, helping herself to ammunition.
She took careful aim, anxious to avoid the two men still in the thick of the fight, and succeeded in knocking two of the creatures right off the cliff. One wedged in the cleft as it fell, and they could distinctly hear the sound of its neck breaking, even above the noise of the fight.
The few remaining, decided they had suffered enough and began to retreat, but the men were not content to let them go and pursued them down the cleft. The creatures, happier on all fours than the men, descended faster and slipped away like mist into the gathering night.
“Damn!” swore Andarion when he located Celedorn in the darkness. “They know that we’re here now!”
Celedorn peered at him in the gloom. “What happened to you?” he asked, indicating Andarion’s exposed arm.
“Put it this way, if this shirt had been a little better made, I would have gone over the cliff along with my sleeve.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Just a scratch. Those animals have sharp claws.”
“We’ll attend to it when we get to the top. Turog scratches often turn bad. You shouldn’t neglect it.”
The climb up the cleft in the darkness was slow and difficult. There was no moon and the darkness was complete, making it necessary for them to climb relying almost exclusively on their sense of touch. The only one who was glad of the darkness was Elorin, who had no wish to see the void below. At long last they reached the top and sank down on the grass, exhausted.
Triana began to bathe the long scratch on the Prince’s forearm with water from a flask, but soon found herself replaced by Celedorn.
“Water will not clean such a scratch. I have a little Sirkrisian spirit here, which will help prevent infection but will hurt like the devil.” He took the stopper out of a small bottle and poured the liquid over the scratch. Despite the warning, the Prince gasped with pain. Celedorn winced with unexpected sympathy. “Hold fast, the pain will subside in a moment. The wound must be cleaned. Even so, it will probably leave a scar. Such wounds never heal well.” He nodded towards Triana hovering nearby. “You can bind it up now. Then get a few hours sleep. I’ll guard the top of the cleft. At least it is an impeccable defensive position.”
Morning brought with it not the Turog, but grey skies and rain. The clouds wept a steady, soaking, drizzle that soon had their hooded cloaks dripping. The golden days of the grasslands were behind them. The plateau was in reality a heather-covered heath, much riven by sudden valleys carved by exuberant peaty-brown streams. Through the rain-blurred air to the south, a line of jagged mountains could be distinguished, not quite of the height and majesty of the Westrin Mountains but still constituting a formidable barrier. The only comfort was that the drenching rain would confuse their scent and make the business of tracking them more difficult. In order to further confuse pursuit, they turned eastwards rather than following the more predictable route to the south. The rain turned the heathland into a nightmare of bogs and marshy ground, concealed by innocent-looking mosses and lichen into which the unwary could plunge knee-deep. Relisar, who never possessed much presence of mind, paid for his inattention by twice having to be hauled out of peaty morasses which left him shivering, dirty and soaked to the skin. The others were in little better state. The drizzle found its way through every layer of clothing, until they hadn’t a dry stitch between them. Water poured in rivulets off every rock and down every hollow. The streams in the abrupt, tree-filled ravines became roar
ing torrents which were perilous to cross. The Prince, who was leading, tried to avoid descending into these glens, as it inevitably meant a rushing stream to ford. He was leading the company along the rim of one of these valleys, trying to find a way around it, when without the slightest warning, the earth at the edge of the valley, weakened by so much rain, gave way. The Prince and Elorin, who had been walking behind him, found the ground disappearing from beneath their feet and tumbled helplessly down into the valley complete with soil, ferns and a small hawthorn tree. It wasn’t such a bad fall, more of a tumble, for the valley sides were not as steep as usual at that point, and the Prince soon picked himself up. However, Elorin had fallen further and had been brought up with a clearly audible thud against the bole of a tree. When she didn’t instantly arise, Andarion slithered down the slope to her in some concern. As he bent over her, he suddenly found himself rudely thrust aside. He turned to Celedorn, a sharp rebuke on his lips, but the words died unborn as he saw the look of anxiety on his face. Celedorn knelt beside Elorin, trying to shield her from the rain. Instantly she opened her eyes and gave a soft groan. “Oh, my head hurts. What hit me?”
“A tree,” said the Prince laconically from over Celedorn’s shoulder.
Celedorn gave vent to his anxiety in his usual fashion. “Of all the stupid things to do! Walking right on the edge like that!” he declared roundly, the tone of his voice at odd variance with the look in his eyes.
“Thank you for your overwhelming concern,” replied Elorin acidly, in an almost perfect imitation of his own manner.
Andarion caught Triana looking back and forth in perplexity between the two, a puzzled frown between her brows.
Celedorn, who was still kneeling supporting Elorin in his arms, felt the Prince’s hand on his shoulder.
“We will have to find shelter. We are making very little progress in this rain and we don’t want one of us falling ill.” He looked at Elorin. “Can you stand?”
She nodded and let Celedorn help her to her feet.
“I’m fine - apart from being wet, cold and having a headache - oh, and I forgot to add ‘dirty’ to my list,” she added, looking with disgust at her muddy appearance.
“I gather from the amount of complaining she’s doing, that she’s all right,” remarked Celedorn wryly to the Prince. “I agree that we need shelter. Probably our best bet is one of these valleys.”
“If we could find somewhere well hidden, I think we should risk lighting a fire. Any Turog determined enough to track us in this weather, almost deserves to find us.”
“I’ll go down into this valley and see what I can find,” volunteered Celedorn. “The rest of you wait here.”
He glanced at Elorin but seemed reassured by her vigorous attempt to get the mud off herself, and disappeared into the glen.
He was back only a few minutes later. “We’re in luck. There’s a cave in the valley below us, just across the stream. The stream is swollen but fordable.”
“It sounds like paradise,” declared Relisar grandly, wringing the water out of his beard. “Lead on, young man.”
The cave looked unpromising at first. A narrow, slit-like crack in the rock, festooned with moss and dripping ferns, gave access to it, but it soon widened out to provide a high-roofed chamber. Unfortunately it was damp. The walls glistened in the meagre light creeping in from the entrance. Relisar, however, was not discouraged.
“A fire will set this to rights,” he said cheerfully, a large raindrop running down his bony nose. “At least a narrow entrance means the light from the fire will not easily be seen.”
However, actually lighting a fire proved another matter. The wood that they collected was all uniformly damp and stubbornly resisted all attempts to light it. Celedorn had been struggling with flints and kindling for some time, and was quietly and comprehensively cursing the recalcitrant wood under his breath.
“Very well,” said Relisar. “Dramatic measures are called for, if we are not all to take a chill. Stand back.”
Celedorn backed away from the wood and folded his arms in the manner of one prepared to be entertained.
Relisar raised his hand, fixed an eagle eye on the wood and in ringing tones said:
“Falethon d’goethe!”
Absolutely nothing happened.
“Are you sure you have the right spell?” the Prince asked helpfully. Relisar shot him a disgusted look.
“I’d stand well back, if I were you, Celedorn,” the Prince advised. “Relisar’s spells tend to be of the hit or miss variety. You could find yourself turned into something small and furry.”
Celedorn laughed, but retreated nevertheless.
Relisar repeated the command and this time was rewarded with a small pop and a single puff of smoke.
“Maybe I should try good old-fashioned steel and flint again,” remarked Celedorn tactlessly.
But even as he spoke, a little tongue of flame began to lick around the damp wood.
Relisar beamed at his audience. “Your apologies will now be accepted.”
Celedorn dumped his pack down and headed for the entrance.
“Where are you going?” Elorin asked. “It’s still raining, after all.”
“If the look of that wood is anything to go by, you will all be smoked out of here soon. I’m going down to the stream to see about the possibility of some trout. Want to come?”
She shook her head. “I want to get my clothes dried out.”
He shrugged. “As you wish.”
Triana, watching him closely, thought he looked a little disappointed but it was always difficult to tell with Celedorn.
When he returned, the fire was crackling nicely and the cave was redolent with the smell of damp wool. Andarion had tied a framework of branches together and all the cloaks were draped over it to dry. Celedorn handed his catch to Elorin.
“Half a dozen, already gutted. You see, you’re not the only one who can catch fish.”
“You’re soaking again. Take off that shirt so that I can dry it.”
He pulled his shirt off over his head and extracted a dry one from his pack, then went and sat beside the Prince.
“How is your arm?”
Andarion was surprised. “A bit stiff.”
“Let me see.”
When Andarion exposed the wound, Celedorn clicked his tongue in annoyance. “You have an infection in it. I can feel the heat, however, I’ve seen worse. Keep it clean and keep the bandage around it.”
The Prince began to fumble left-handedly with the bandage. Unable to stand his ineptness, Celedorn took it from him and deftly began to wind it around his arm. Andarion could not repress a soft laugh.
Celedorn glanced up from his task. “What’s so amusing?”
“This whole situation. From trying to annihilate me in the Westrin Mountains, you are now actually taking care of my health.”
The irony was far from being lost on his companion, who found himself unable to suppress an appreciative grin. “Enjoy it while you may. I assume we will be at each other’s throats again, once we reach Eskendria.”
The Prince’s smile faded. “If there still is an Eskendria when we get back. I could not form the old alliance, so there is no one to aid my country. No help from either Serendar or the Isles. Every day, before I left, the Turog were gathering in greater and greater numbers across the Harnor. Eskendria is not as she once was; she has not the men to repulse such a horde. What if we reach the Harnor only to discover a burning ruin that was once Eskendria? A slaughterhouse instead of a kingdom? I cannot explain it, Celedorn, but a terrible fear has been growing in me - the fear that we shall be too late.”
Celedorn regarded him silently for a moment. “If the attack is inevitable, what could we do that would make the outcome any different?”
The use of the word ‘we’ was not lost on the Prince. “I don’t know,” he replied, in something not far from despair. “Sarrick is the soldier of the family, not me, and yet....... and yet I feel somehow that our presen
ce would make a difference. At the very least, if Eskendria falls, I must be there to fall with her.”
“You would throw your life away in such a gesture?”
“Yes, if I must. If Eskendria is defeated, then it is the end of us all. Serendar sits there smugly by the sea while King Orovin plays games with me, but it is inevitable that the Turog will turn on him and one by one the great kingdoms will fall and all the little principalities to the south will fall too.”
“You paint a grim picture.”
“The Westrin Mountains will provide no safety. If Eskendria falls, Ravenshold will too. There will be no escape.”
Celedorn bowed his head. “I know.”
“Then come to our aid. You have a thousand men in those mountains, all fierce fighters.”
“Nearly two thousand, to be precise.”
“Then help us. You were born in Eskendria were you not?”
“I was.”
“Then how can you not help the land of your birth?”
Celedorn stood up. “You are clutching at straws here. One thousand? Two thousand? It will make little difference. Even with the full weight of Serendar behind you, the outcome would still be in doubt.”
The Prince looked up at him with grief in his eyes. “Nevertheless, I will try with all means in my power.”
Celedorn returned the look enigmatically. “You are a brave man, Andarion. It is a pity that courage alone will not bring victory.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The Hidden Valley
The next few days saw no sign of the Turog. The others relaxed a little, assuming their trail had been lost in the rain, but Celedorn, who knew how persistent the creatures could be, did not abate his vigilance.
The heather-covered heath had been left behind them and they now entered an area of jumbled hills and valleys. Their route proved no easier than crossing the heath - but for different reasons. The hills were a convoluted maze of sharp ridges, intersected by valleys that looked at first to provide a promising path, only to prove to be a dead-end. When they had been forced to retrace their route for the fourth time, tempers were becoming a little frayed. Celedorn, never the mildest of men, was looking positively wicked, and even the Prince’s face was marred by a scowl.
