The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  Andarion, driven by grief and rage, attacked the Red Turog. He had learnt much in his practice sessions with Celedorn, and deftly used a trick he had been shown to disarm his opponent. He deflected a downwards blow and with a deft twist of his wrist, circled his blade under his opponent’s. It flew from the grasp of the unwary creature and in that instant the Prince’s sword found its mark.

  He didn’t wait to see it fall, but retreated from the battle to the place where they had carried the King. Sarrick had removed his father’s helmet and breastplate, revealing his bloodstained tunic. Relisar was hovering anxiously over him. He looked up when Andarion arrived and gave a tiny, unmistakable shake of the head. The Prince leaped from the saddle and fell on his knees beside his father. The King was still conscious but his face bore the pallor of approaching death.

  “Where are you, Andarion?” he asked faintly.

  The Prince leaned closer. “Here, father, right beside you.”

  The King turned his head slightly and looked at him. “You were right, you know,” he said a little obscurely. Then after a moment said: “Send for Berendore. Quickly now, my time is short and I must speak to him before the end.”

  Sarrick sprang to his feet to obey his request and a short time later returned with Celedorn following him. The King signalled weakly for him to come closer and Celedorn sank on one knee beside him.

  “You were right, Berendore. I should have come that day. I thought kingship meant weighing all the factors, one against the other, and then making the practical decision, but I was wrong. Sometimes compassion must come before common-sense. Sometimes loyalty must outweigh all other considerations. I let your father and mother die because I was afraid to lose more men in a vain attempt to rescue them, and if truth be told, I feared to risk myself in such a cause. Now I ask you what I have asked of no other man - I ask your forgiveness. If it gives you any satisfaction, you should know that I have spent my entire life blaming myself for the decision I made that day, wishing that it could be undone. When I discovered that my sister’s son still lived, for the first time in many long years, I had hope - hope of being at peace.”

  Celedorn looked down at the dying man, his face set and stony. Those watching him found it impossible to tell what was going on in his mind.

  “Celedorn?” said Relisar gently. “You once told me that you had been forgiven. Now you, in turn, must forgive. You, of all men, know what it is to live with decisions you regret, now heal the hurt of twenty years before it is too late.”

  Celedorn did not reply but dragged his eyes away from Relisar’s earnest countenance and dropped them to the King. The King’s vision was clouding a little, but he strained to hold off death, to focus all his remaining strength on the man beside him. He raised his hand in a gesture that was almost pleading. Without a word, Celedorn took the hand in his own in a strong clasp.

  “I forgive you, Sire,” he said, his voice shaking a little with emotion. “Be at peace.”

  The King released a deep sigh. “Thank you, Berendore,” he breathed, then his eyes became fixed and he saw no more.

  Celedorn closed the King’s eyes and laid his hand back by his side. When he stood up, he looked at his own hand, to discover the King’s blood upon it.

  Blindly, he walked away a pace or two, oblivious to all around him, conscious that a terrible tension had been released within him. A terrible pain, that had become so much part of him that he had hardly been aware of its existence, was flooding away like snow melting in spring.

  So absorbed was he, that when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he started.

  It was Andarion, his face pale with grief. “Thank you, Celedorn,” he said quietly. “Thank you for forgiving him. You enabled him to die in peace.”

  Celedorn nodded slowly. “Yes, Sire.”

  “Sire?”

  “You are king now, my friend. Eskendria is yours.”

  “I had not thought to be king so soon.”

  Celedorn stared back towards Addania. “Elorin once told me that bitterness never healed any hurt. I will hate humanity no longer but reserve my vengeance for those who deserve it. It was not your father who caused the evil that day, it was the Turog and it is against the true enemy that I reserve retribution.”

  Sarrick came running up. “Andarion! You must give the order to retreat! This is not the time or place for grief, when Eskendria’s fate is balanced on a knife-edge.”

  Andarion, with an effort, put aside his sadness. “You are right, brother. We must fall back on the city. Celedorn, your men are the freshest troops we have - they must cover our retreat.”

  The retreat was a costly business. The enemy, realising their goal, had no intention of allowing them to disengage. Division after division fell back while still fighting involved rearguard actions. Given the difficult circumstances, Sarrick’s tactics were masterly, keeping the enemy busy, while the bulk of his men converged on one point - the bridge over the river into the city. During the first stages of the retreat, the Ravenshold brigands were everywhere, keeping a close formation and using their tight massing and bulk like a battering ram to break up knots of the fiercest fighting. Again and again they charged the enemy, giving the beleaguered infantry a desperately needed respite in which to fall back. At last, under Celedorn’s orders, the brigands took up defensive positions in a semi-circle before the bridge, protecting the last men to cross into the city.

  Elorin, watching the retreat from the height of the city walls, with Dorgan by her side, saw with horror how the black tide of Turog swept ever forward, swirling against the barrier of shields, causing the semicircle to shrink ever smaller towards the gate. As their lines shortened, so the brigands dismounted and sent their horses back into the city. They fought shoulder to shoulder, their shields taking fearful punishment as blows hammered upon them.

  She could distinguish Celedorn in the centre of the line, hacking and slicing without mercy. He ducked suddenly, as a swinging blow from a mace came in his direction. The blow snagged the crest of his helmet and swept it from his head. A shrieking howl, audible from the top of the wall, even above the rumpus of battle, went up from the Turog.

  “Zardes-kur! Zardes-kur! The Executioner is here!”

  Dorgan leaned precariously over the parapet. “They had not recognised him before because of his helmet, but they know those scars as well as we do.”

  “Is he hurt?” Elorin asked urgently, hopping to see around his bulk.

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said, peering doubtfully into the chaos below. “I have lost sight of him.......no, there he is! I can see him - there, to the left. He is fighting a Red Turog!”

  Sarrick and Andarion were also watching the scene at much closer quarters from the crest of the bridge. Men were streaming past them into the city, many covered in blood or being helped, limping, by their comrades. Yet to the brothers’ pride, there was no panic but an orderly, disciplined retreat.

  As the army diminished, the Ravensholders took more and more of the strain. Sarrick positioned archers on the city walls and in front of the gates, to cover the sudden dash for safety that they were going to have to make.

  The Red Turog and Celedorn were fighting within the confines of the circle. It wielded a straight-bladed sword which it had taken from a previous victim, and it wielded it well, combining strength with cunning. The two blades clashed with such jarring force that in the overcast light sparks could briefly be seen. Celedorn fought with all his customary coolness and agility, but his calm demeanour was deceptive, for no one except the Turog was close enough to see the blaze of hatred in his eyes. Suddenly, he cast aside his shield and abandoning the finesse of his usual technique, caught his hilt in a powerful double-handed grip and began to fight solely using sheer, naked power. The long blade swung again and again at the creature, with dreadful force and precision. It fought well in return, but its opponent would brook no opposition and pace by pace it was forced to retreat.

  Elorin, leaning dangerously over the wall
, watched with her breath held in horrified fascination. So, too, did the King and his brother, but they need not have feared for him, for his strength of will was such, that to oppose him was fruitless. Swift as lightning, Celedorn exploited a moment’s carelessness on the part of his foe, and his blade flashed over its shield and found its mark deep in its throat.

  The brigands were now fighting tightly packed at the end of the bridge, compressed into a narrow, constricting mass.

  Andarion called out urgently to Celedorn, raising his voice to bellow over the noise of battle.

  “Celedorn! Run for the gate! We will cover you! Run!”

  All the brigands heard him, and at the signal from Celedorn, took to their heels and fled. The Turog sprang after them, but were met with a hail of arrows from the ramparts that cut them down with deadly accuracy. So many fell, slain in mid-stride, that they blocked the path of others forging forward from behind towards the narrow bridge.

  Celedorn was the last man through the heavy gates, just as they were slammed shut in the faces of the pursuing swarm.

  Andarion eyed his cousin in alarm, for he was spattered with blood from head to foot. “Are you hurt?”

  Celedorn gave his characteristically wicked grin. “No cause for alarm. All this,” he said, indicating the gore, “is, I assure you, not mine.”

  The King relaxed his concerned posture. “I should have known you would come through without a scratch. All the same, you had better get cleaned up before Elorin sees you.”

  Celedorn turned away, only to be confronted by Sarrick, bleeding from a scratch on his forehead but still pugnacious. “I said to you a short time ago that we would soon see what sort of bargain we had bought ourselves. Well, I watched you fight the Red Turog and I saw your men cover our retreat and so I think, perhaps, it was a good one.” He held out his hand. “I refused to shake hands with you when you assumed your title. I wish to repair that omission.”

  Celedorn transferred his bloodied sword to his left hand and took the Prince’s hand in his. Sarrick smiled, suddenly revealing his relationship with his brother. “I agree with Andarion, you had better get cleaned up before your appearance panics the townspeople.”

  “Surely there is something that must be done first?” objected Celedorn.

  “I know - the bridge. You have done enough for today. I have long had plans in mind to demolish the bridge. Leave it to me.”

  Celedorn spoke to one of his men, patiently waiting for orders. “How many did we lose?”

  The brigand pulled off his helmet revealing a fierce, sweat-streaked face. “Five hundred or so, my lord, a quarter of our force.”

  “After what you did today,” the King told him, “I will create an elite division called the Ravenshold Brigands, using your men as the core. It will be formed of only the bravest fighters.”

  The man grinned, savagely pleased with the compliment and Celedorn recognised that the new king knew how to handle men.

  Elorin, fighting her way through the throng towards the gate, missed Celedorn, who was at the same time making his way up the winding streets towards their quarters in the palace. Consequently, he had time to bathe and change before she caught up with him .She came into the room just as he had finished dressing. Her eyes instantly fell on the bloodstained clothes lying on the floor. Before she could voice the question that sprang to her lips, he said quickly: “I am not injured. It is my enemy’s blood you see.”

  She crossed to him and saying nothing, put her arms around him and buried her face against his neck. He stood for a long time leaning his injured cheek against her hair, holding her in the kind of silence that makes words utterly superfluous. When at last he stepped back, he said: “I must go down to the gate again. Andarion may need me.”

  “Is it true that he is king now?”

  “Yes, it is true. His father died in battle. I......I spoke to him just before the end.”

  “You forgave him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he replied, unsurprised by her perception. “For a moment I tried to hold on to my sense of grievance. It is not easy to cast off the habits of twenty years - but it would not do. I looked into the eyes of the dying man and could not deny him the peace he craved. Yet, as a result of that act of forgiveness, in a strange way, the one who has found peace is me.”

  “You have finally let go of the past?”

  “In all but one respect - I will kill the Great-turog if I find him.”

  When he had gone, Elorin changed out of her blue dress and donned tunic and breeches once more, then catching up her bow and a quiver full of arrows, she headed towards the ramparts with the determination to account for a few of the Turog herself.

  By the time Celedorn had assured himself that the wounded amongst his men were being attended to, it was getting dark as he made his way down the winding streets towards the gate. Many townspeople were in the streets and it was clear that they recognised him. He received some looks of gratitude, but many more of suspicion - for old ideas die hard - but no one attempted to detain him.

  He found Sarrick leaning on the parapet of the bastion by the gate. He turned when he heard Celedorn’s footsteps and peered into the darkness.

  “Who is that?”

  “Celedorn,” was the reply, as the former brigand could not yet accustom himself to his new title.

  Sarrick grunted in reply. “You will be pleased to hear that the bridge has gone. We had prepared against this eventuality by partly undermining it. Under cover of constant fire from the walls, the job was completed. The Turog have forded the river upstream of us and are now encamped on both banks. It appears, cousin, that we are surrounded.”

  Celedorn leaned his elbows on the wall and stared out into the darkness. Here and there the watch fires of the enemy twinkled like fireflies in the otherwise unbroken darkness. After the tumult of battle, the night seemed unusually quiet. He could hear the chuckle of the river as it swept past the walls far below and the lonely call of some nightbird. Occasionally the faint clatter of cooking pots carried across the water from the Turog encampment.

  “What are they up to?” he asked, more of himself than Sarrick.

  “I don’t know. They broke off the attack at dusk, and since then nothing much has happened. I dislike it when they are quiet - it usually means they are plotting something.”

  “I agree, but let us hope they leave us alone for tonight because the men badly need some rest.” He looked along the rows of watchful sentries. “Where is Andar.....the King?”

  “He is keeping vigil over our father’s body in the throne room. It is the custom that he stay with him until dawn. I think he would appreciate your company for a while. In any event, there is nothing for you to do here.” As Celedorn turned to go, he added: “By the way, your wife does you credit.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed. I had no idea that she was so deadly accurate with the bow. She helped give covering fire for the men working on the bridge, and it would appear that she seldom misses what she aims at. She certainly doesn’t lack for nerve.”

  Celedorn raised his eyes heavenward. “Sarrick,” he said feelingly, “you have no idea.”

  He heard the Prince’s crack of laughter as he descended the steps into the town.

  King Tharin was lying in state in the throne room. His armour and bloodstained clothes had been removed and he was dressed in robes of crimson velvet with a gold circlet upon his brow. In death, his face looked noble and serene, revealing a likeness to his eldest son that had not always been apparent in life. At each corner of the funeral bier were tall, golden stands shaped like lilies, each holding a flaming torch. They were flanked by guards in full ceremonial armour who stood silently to attention, their long spears held stiffly in their hands. The flames cast their flickering light on the gleaming floor, on the dark and empty throne, on the glittering gold of the king’s circlet. They made deep, mysterious shadows in the corners that silently danced and writhed. At the king’s head stood Andarion, also dress
ed in royal crimson. Both his hands were folded around the hilt of his sword and the point rested on the floor between his feet. His head was slightly bowed.

  Celedorn stood in the doorway, uncertain whether to advance any further or not, reluctant to intrude on the scene of grief; but when Andarion saw him, he left his position and came towards him with a questioning look.

  “All is quiet,” murmured Celedorn in response to the look. “They have crossed the river but so far, nothing else has happened.” He paused, and a little awkwardly said: “I fear you will be given little time to mourn him, Andar.......Sire.”

  “When we are alone, it is always Andarion. I told you that when we crossed the Harnor, our friendship would not change and I keep to my word. If anything, it has become stronger for I did not expect such magnanimity from you towards my father.” He sighed. “And now? Well, now I am king of a country that may not survive beyond tomorrow. I only hope that when my time comes, I die as bravely as my father.” He glanced towards the still figure on the bier. “How strangely does fate overset all our plans. Triana may never be my wife, and Ravenshold may never see another Lord of Westrin. Be grateful for the time that you and Elorin have had together.”

  Celedorn checked the reassuring words that rose to his lips, realising their futility, realising that what Andarion said could not be denied.

  “Do you wish me to stay with you?” he asked instead.

  “No. I must spend this last night alone with my father. Go back to Elorin and get some rest. I fear we may be very busy tomorrow.”

  Celedorn nodded and stepping back a pace, bowed slightly to him before leaving.

  But that night he could not sleep. He lay on his back staring into the darkness, Elorin curled up by his side, going over and over in his mind the events that had taken place on the Hill of the Seven Crowns; repeating to himself all that he had been told, and wondering about all that he had not.