by R. J. Grieve
Vesarion, covered in blood and holding his side, bent and with some distaste, withdrew the blade and wiped it clean on the man’s clothes.
Sareth’s eyes flew wide with alarm when he turned to hand her the knife.
“Vesarion! You’re hurt!”
He shook his head. “No, this blood isn’t mine. I must have severed his artery with your knife, which would explain why there is so much of it.” He did not add that it was the first time he had killed a man in close combat. Eskendria had, indeed, become a civilised place in recent years.
“Perhaps it was as well that I came, after all,” she suggested ingenuously.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, refusing to be beguiled. “What if something had happened to you? Exactly how am I supposed to explain to the King that I let his daughter come to harm? I hold to what I originally said, we would do better if you and Bethro had remained at home.”
She raised her brows at the tone. “Courteously said.”
He had the grace to acknowledge the hit, but his smile contained the suggestion of a wince of pain which was not lost on her.
“You are hurt. What’s wrong with your side? You’d better let me see.”
But he held out his hand to fend her off. “No, don’t fuss. It’s only a bruise. Where’s Eimer?”
“Off to see if he can trace where they’ve gone. I’ve told him not to go far.”
Seldro approached them, his face grave. “We lost two good men to those scum, my lord. I have never known mere forest bandits to be such tough fighters. I think we had a narrow escape. What are your orders now, sir?”
Vesarion, hand still pressed to his ribs, said: “Tie the bodies of our men across their horses. We’ll take them to the village of Elig for a decent burial. We also need to get some dry clothes.” He glanced at his attire. “And I want to get all this blood off me.”
It was left to Sareth to point out that something was missing. “Has anyone seen Bethro,” she asked, looking around the glade in vain.
Vesarion spun round, his eyes searching the forest. “Now where has the silly fool got to?” he demanded harshly.
“I take it the bandits didn’t carry him off?”
This suggestion appeared to amuse him, for he could not suppress a chuckle. “Not unless they brought a hoist with them.”
They finally found Bethro curled up in a tight ball in a little hollow a short distance away, with his eyes screwed shut and his hands pressed over his ears.
Sareth, in some amusement, bent and touched his shoulder. He gave a terrified gasp and sat up like a startled rabbit.
“It’s all right, Bethro,” she assured him. “It’s all over. They’ve gone.”
He pressed his hand to his heart in relief. “I nearly expired with fright – especially when one of them fell over me in the darkness. I am adapted, I think, for a more civilised existence.”
She smiled. “Nonsense, Bethro. You are a true adventurer.”
“Ah,” he sighed, oblivious to mockery, “but that was a little too much excitement for one of my delicate constitution.”
“You know, Bethro, it was your warning that saved us. I dread to think what would have happened if they had found us all asleep.”
He brightened considerably at that and she knew that in his imagination he was picturing himself as Bethro the Hero.
“Delighted to be of service,” he remarked in his usual pompous style.
“You could be of a little more service, if you wish. I believe you have some knowledge of herbs and medicine and my lord of Westrin has been hurt. He won’t let me see the injury but perhaps you could persuade him.”
He looked at her doubtfully. “I have no practical knowledge of such things. All my learning has been gained from books, nevertheless, I will certainly do my best.”
By a mixture of coaxing, cajoling and nagging he managed to persuade Vesarion to sit down on a tree trunk and pull his shirt out of his belt. It revealed a nasty red contusion on his side.
Bethro, with surprising skill, gently probed it with his fingers, eliciting several winces of pain from his victim.
Finally, he sat back on his heels, satisfied with his findings.
“I am no expert, my lord, but I do not think the ribs have been broken. A painful enough injury that will cause you trouble for some days, but not serious. Perhaps,” he continued diplomatically, “a change of shirt would be in order. This one is, shall we say, a tad gory.”
Eimer returned just as they were packing up to go.
“I have no good news, Vesarion. I followed the villains on foot, tracking them for some distance through the forest until I came to a spot where they had tethered their horses. I can tell you that there were fifteen horses and they set off in the direction of Addania but the torrential rain has obscured their trail. I then returned along the edge of the road leading to Elig and have even worse news – there is no sign of the boy. I tried to pick up his tracks where we left off yesterday, but everything has been washed away.”
“I see. We should not be distracted by this encounter from following our main objective - which is to find the boy. All that we know is that he was heading in the direction of Sorne, so I think our best plan is to go to Forestfleet and ask Pevorion to make enquiries at the bridges over the Harnor, to establish if he has crossed into the Forsaken Lands. We will stop briefly at Elig and then we must press on with all speed.”
The boy sat miserably on the ground in the darkness, clutching the end of the long driving reins. In reality, he need not have bothered holding on so tightly, because there was utterly no possibility of his large mount going anywhere. The carthorse had been worked harder in the last few hours than in the whole of its sedate existence. It was used to trundling along at an untaxing walking pace, pulling a cart loaded with hay or such-like, and could not understand the haste demanded by the young rider stuck like a burr to its broad back. Now, finally, the headlong rush appeared to have stopped. Just as darkness fell they had found an open glade in the forest where some grass grew and the horse, stationary at last, settled down to making short work of it. Its exhausted rider, less adapted to the weather, sat in the rain, soaked, shivering and ears alert for the slightest sound of pursuit.
Several times during the course of the afternoon, he had left the road and sought the concealment of the ash trees when he had seen another traveller approaching, for he was well aware that his horse was just too recognisable to risk an encounter. A couple of times he had almost been caught out, as the trees, or a sharp bend in the road, hid an on-comer from sight until the last moment. His sense of hearing was his most reliable asset and just as a gloomy dusk was settling on the forest, he detected the sound of many horses approaching. He pulled his animal behind the concealment of some bushes barely in the nick of time, just as a large party of horsemen, all armed to the teeth, had galloped past. But then the rain had started and it got dark so quickly he had been forced to stop. He had consumed the pastry squashed into his pocket before it got too wet to be edible, but it was nowhere near enough to satisfy him and consequently he now added ‘hungry’ to his list of woes.
However, despite the rain and his growling stomach, he discovered that he must have dozed off, because sometime later he awoke with a start, his heart thumping, aware that something alarming had penetrated his unconscious mind. He gripped the reins, listening intently. The rain had stopped and the forest was deathly quiet. Then in the silence, he heard it again – the clash of weapons and men shouting. A battle of some kind was clearly taking place in the forest at no great distance behind him, and into his mind flashed the image of the mounted men who had passed him. He remembered their faces with great clarity, for all bore a certain grim determination that boded no good for those the object of their journey. All he knew for certain was that it was something that he dare not get caught up in, so night-time or not, he must obey his instincts to get as far away as possible.
Carefully, he gathered up the long reins and grasping his
horse by the bridle, he cautiously began to lead it between the trees, feeling his way between the trunks in the darkness. Gradually the sound of fighting grew fainter and fainter until it ceased altogether. He plodded on in silence, not really sure of his position, trying to keep to his previous northerly direction, towards the river Harnor. The first twitter of birdsong alerted him to the fact that dawn was breaking. The weak, grey light revealed the dense ranks of ash trees all around him – and not the slightest sign of the road. From the position of the rising sun, he knew he had been travelling in roughly the correct direction, but he had parted company with the road entirely and was now forced to admit that he was completely lost.
Chapter Seven
The Barony of Sorne
Amongst all the baronies of Eskendria with their various distinctive characteristics, Sareth decided that Sorne was her favourite - with the sole exception of Westrin. No two baronies could have been more different. Westrin was a land of high, jagged peaks, rearing their heads to tear the sky, interspersed by sheltered green valleys stretching like long fingers into the depths of the mountains. Sorne, in sharp contrast, was a barony of dense, shady forests - not pine forests like the ones that skirted the frozen peaks of Westrin - but gracious deciduous woods, lush and verdant in summer and starkly bare in shades of brown and grey in the winter months.
Even the main residences of the respective barons were vastly different. Ravenshold, or Sadris-karn as it was known in the old language, was set on an impregnable pinnacle of iron-grey rock that thrust its way through the thin skin of a high mountain valley. It was surrounded by the natural fortifications of the jagged ramparts of the mountains, their ranges piled up upon one another’s shoulders into the purple distance. Even at the height of summer the tallest peaks were magically snow-tipped, often flushed gold or pink by the sun at first or last light. Forestfleet did not aspire to such grandeur. It nestled between the trees in comfortable anonymity, content to dream tranquilly through the passing of the seasons.
By virtue of the fact that almost the entire barony was densely wooded, its people were attuned to the forest in all that they did. It dictated the rhythm of their lives, their work, even the structure of their homes. Although there was some arable land to the east, most Sorneans gained their livelihood from the trees. There were charcoal burners tending their smouldering fires in glades so deep in the woods that only they could find them, supplying fuel for forges throughout the Kingdom, especially the armourers and goldsmiths of Addania. Sorne produced the most skilled and beautiful wooden objects in the Kingdom, from the magnificent carved oak beams in the throne room at Addania, to the humble benches outside every county tavern. From delicate jewel boxes inlaid with the subtle tones of exquisite marquetry and furniture wondrously carved with mythical beasts, to humble buckets and ladders. Young boys were taught the art of carving almost as soon as they could walk and the Sorneans’ skill was known as far away as the Isles of Kelendore and the Great Sand Desert of the south.
Sorne was distinctive in other ways as well. Unlike the principal towns of most of the other baronies, the town of Sorne was not protected by a defensive wall set amongst open fields. By contrast, it was situated in the heart of the forest and was unbounded by any wall, as if its people somehow considered the harsh intrusion of stone an affront to the living vibrancy of the forest. Only the old castle of Forestfleet was walled and even then, the grey stone was so mottled and softened with velvet green mosses and lichens that it had acquired a rather organic appearance, as if it was some exotic fungal growth that had sprung up one night, like the many mysterious toadstools found along the rotting logs in autumn.
Although it was a mere six months since Sareth had last visited Sorne, she was glad to return, for she was fond of Lord Pevorion’s wife, Kelda. She never ceased to be astonished by the fact that no matter how often she visited the town, she always discovered that she was right in the middle of it before she had even realised that she had arrived. The trees had not been cut down to create a clearing for the houses but instead, in deference to their sanctity, they were interspersed between the massive trunks. They nestled discreetly under the spreading branches that supported the high canopy, as if conscious that they were an intrusion. Indeed, as was natural in people so dependent on the forest, many of the ancient superstitions about the woodland lingered on. Tales passed down through the generations, migrated into unchallenged folklore. Tales of mysterious beasts and winged serpents. In the days of the Old Kingdom, it had been said that the spirits of the forest lived in the greatest of the trees. The mightiest of the oaks, beeches and hornbeams each had a resident spirit that guarded the forest and punished those who treated it with disrespect. Such tales were treated seriously. Before any mature tree was cut down, the woodsmen cast wooden discs on the ground before it, carved with mystical symbols whose origin was long forgotten, to determine that the tree was unoccupied. If a man valued his life, it was not considered wise to deprive a wood spirit of its home. Thus the oldest and greatest of the trees around the town of Sorne were inviolate and the people preferred to live harmoniously between such mighty specimens, with the wood sprites as their invisible, but benign, neighbours.
The first intimation that one had arrived, was the occasional house, its wooden walls and steeply-shingled roof blending so harmoniously with its surroundings that one had to look carefully to see it. Amongst the dim browns and greens of the forest it was almost invisible. Soon more and more houses began to appear as the unsurfaced road, little more than a beaten track, somewhat illogically began to twist and turn between trees of staggering girth. Pointed roofs and ornate verandas, peering around the boles like curious children, began to appear. Every available surface of each house fell victim to its occupants’ prevailing passion for carving. Doorframes, shutters, railings, even the edges and undersides of the deep eaves that overhung the porches were all intricately carved in sharply raised relief according to the taste and skill of the owner. Forest themes were the most popular. Tree and leaf motifs were abundant, followed by birds and flowers. Even larger forest fauna were present – mainly deer and boar. Squirrels were well represented, their playful nature depicted by showing them chasing each other, nose to tail around window frames and pillars.
The dismal clouds of the night before had melted away to be replaced with soft spring sunshine, now finding its way through holes in the canopy to cast spears of mellow afternoon light in pools on the ground. It filtered through the leaves, creating a gentle subaqueous glow that blended gold and green with such skill it almost became a living thing with substance of its own. The only spots of colour that were not in complete harmony with such sylvan surroundings were the doors of the houses. Recessed deeply under the eaves, they could be seen by the travellers only by bending low over the horses’ necks. The Sorneans represented each season by a colour. Spring was blue, summer was buttercup yellow and autumn was an appropriate berry red. Only winter was dull, represented by a subtle grey – which didn’t seem, from its scarcity, to be much in favour.
Vesarion, preoccupied as he had been over the preceding years with governing Westrin, had not been to Sorne since he was a boy and was surprised how much he had forgotten. He looked around him with interest, trying to ignore the train of rather noisy urchins they seemed to have acquired, all skipping along behind them like a wedding procession. He noted that even the inns and the workshops of the artisans were all constructed in wood with the same appealing sharp-roofed design. They, too, were all adorned with the seemingly inexhaustible exuberance of the carvings. But Vesarion also looked at it in a more practical light and failed to understand why a barony so close to the river Harnor, which still formed the boundary of the Kingdom with the Forsaken Lands, should be so ill-defended. As they came within sight of the castle, he noticed, disapprovingly, that even Forestfleet’s walls were in poor repair, and were not, in his opinion, nearly high enough to fulfil their purpose. The portcullis suspended over the main gate, was quietly rusting into ob
livion, its chains wound round a winch that was now probably incapable of turning. Even the moat had little water in it and was instead full of buttercups.
The arrangement inside the walls was even less satisfactory from a defensive point of view, by virtue of the fact that all the buildings were made of the Sorneans’ favourite building material. Should the castle ever come under siege, he reflected, a few well-placed fire arrows was all it would take to start a conflagration. He indicated as much to Prince Eimer riding beside him, but the Prince, delighted with all he saw, especially the cosy inns, merely responded that Eskendria had been at peace for over sixty years and the days were gone when one had to be obsessive about defence.
The comment was so logical, it caused Vesarion to wonder why he was so preoccupied with such issues. He came to the conclusion that close proximity to the Forsaken Lands always had the effect of making him uneasy. Westrin was also bounded to the north by the Harnor, but unlike Sorne, where the river was deep but wide and placid, at Westrin the Harnor plunged into a deep gorge known as The Serpent’s Throat. There, confined by the twists and turns of the iron-hard rocks, the river changed in nature. It lost all its former civility and became wilful and untamed, crashing and churning in fury against the confines of the narrow gorge. The Serpent’s Throat was a natural defence, impossible to ford and virtually impossible to bridge – although the Turog had once managed it. In contrast, Sorne had four bridges that spanned the river, ranging in size and grandeur from the lovely stone bridge of the Twelve Arches that had been restored after the war, to several rather rickety affairs, put up by the local people to give access to the few villages that had sprung up along the edge of the Forsaken Lands.
