The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  A large, slightly battered, desk sat by the window scattered with ledgers, parchments and letters. The last lingering rays of the spring sunshine glittered on the tiny diamond panes of the widow setting them sparkling with rainbow colours. It also shot a prism of light from a tall, cut-glass decanter sitting on the desk, flanked by two elegant wine glasses. A fire burned welcomingly in the hearth and on either side of it sat comfortable, much-used armchairs. Pevorion crossed to the desk and poured out two generous glasses of wine. He handed one to Vesarion with the admonition to make himself at home.

  “A good conversation is always better enjoyed if one is at one’s ease, I always say. Sit down, Vesarion, sit down. You know I don’t stand on ceremony.”

  But it wasn’t protocol that had kept the younger man standing. He was now having to come to a decision that had perplexed him for most of their journey – what to tell Pevorion. He sank into the chair and sat contemplating his glass, watching the firelight casting rubies into his wine. How much could he trust Pevorion? Should he tell him why he was hunting the boy? Should he reveal Enrick’s suspicions? Finally, aware that an unusual silence had fallen, he lifted his head to find the object of his thoughts regarding him intently, with a look very far removed from buffoonery. Vesarion prided himself on his ability to assess men – an essential quality in those who govern, and his instinct had seldom been wrong. He squarely met the glance that was being directed at him and knew in his heart that there was no treachery in this man. There were no schemes, no political ambitions, no hidden depths. True, he sometimes overplayed the bluff rustic to distract others from the fact that he had a remarkably shrewd insight into how the world worked. He was no intellectual, like Bethro, but he had the honest man’s ability to detect a lie.

  Their gaze held for a long moment, and Vesarion suddenly realised that he, too, was being assessed.

  “You’re like your grandfather, you know,” Pevorion said at last.

  “You knew him?”

  “I met him once or twice at Addania. I was just a young lad and wouldn’t have dared to speak to the great Erren-dar but for some reason when I was looking at you just now, you reminded me of him.” He paused before resuming: “I take it you have something of a dilemma?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You are wondering just how far you can trust me. You needn’t deny it. I have always spoken my mind too freely to ever be a favourite of Enrick’s, so I hardly think he has been singing my praises to you. However, whatever I think of the Crown Prince, I am loyal to King Meldorin – believe that or not as you wish.”

  But Vesarion, watching him closely, did believe it and made the sudden decision that he would take no part in Enrick’s intrigues. Starting with the theft of the sword, he told Pevorion all that had happened. He told him of how they had pursued their quarry to the forest of Ninn before losing him. He spoke of the attack by the bandits and lastly he told him of how Enrick had sent him to form an opinion of the baron’s loyalty.

  “And what is your opinion?”

  “I think my opinion matters nothing to Enrick, but just to make myself clear, I think he begins to see disloyalty from anyone who dares to question what he does in even the smallest degree – and that does not bode well for the future of this kingdom.”

  Pevorion sighed and took a sip of his wine. “Enrick’s suspicions, I have known about for some time, but all that you tell me about the theft of the sword is news. Like you, Vesarion, I feel we have only scratched the surface of this matter. There is much more going on than meets the eye and I agree with you that the only way you are going to get answers is to catch up with your quarry. At first light, I will send my sons to the bridges to find out if he has crossed into the Forsaken Lands. If not, I will help you search one end of this barony to the other until we unearth him.”

  “Thank you. Your help is much needed, but surely you should send some servants rather than your sons.”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed the devoted father, relapsing a little into his former manner. “What is the point in having seven sons if not to always have someone to do your bidding. Their mother says that their intellect doesn’t match their stature but they are good huntsmen, every one of them, so they’ll find this lad, never fear.” The smile faded from his face. “Mind you, if he has crossed into the Forsaken Lands, he is playing a dangerous game. There are three small settlements on the far bank of the Harnor. When they were established some years ago, some doubted the wisdom of encroaching into a place with such an evil reputation but at first all seemed well. There is unlimited timber to be had in the Great Forest and apart from a few deer, the place seemed deserted. As you know, it used to be the haunt of the Turog but following their defeat at the last battle, most of them were killed, and the few who survived just slunk away into the forest and disappeared from sight. But recently all that has begun to change. At first, one of the villages – I think it was Greendell – began to report the theft of some livestock. Not much more than a couple of chickens, a lamb, that sort of thing. No one could identify the thief, as the raids were always stealthy, taking place in the depths of the night. Then one farmer, a little tired of hens going missing, baited a trap and sat up one night waiting to see what turned up. You can imagine that he got the fright of his life when he discovered his thief was a Turog. He caught it in a net, and swiftly regretted it. It was snarling and struggling, swiping at him with those long claws they have. He tried to hold it, but even though it was the smaller, common kind which, as you know, are not as tall as a man, it was fearsomely strong and tore his net and got away. Since then, they have become even bolder and are now conducting raids in groups. A homestead was wiped out two weeks ago, the woodsman and all his family butchered.”

  “I had heard there was some trouble but not that it was so serious. Have you informed the King of this?”

  “Of course I have, but I suspect he merely handed my letter to Enrick. I have long known of his accusations against me. Twice I have been in the very act of mounting my horse to come to Addania to challenge him and twice Kelda has prevented me. She is of the opinion that Enrick would have me arrested the moment I set foot in Addania on some trumped-up charge of treason and my life might very well be in danger.”

  Vesarion’s brows snapped together. “He would not dare!”

  “Would he not? You stay aloof from politics in your mountain fortress. I think you might be surprised how bold he has become. It is well known throughout this land that power resides with him. His father, I am sad to say, is now merely a figurehead.” He sighed. “I remember the old king, Andarion, and a fine man he was too. He ruled this country as it should be ruled with strength, wisdom and fairness. It’s hard to believe that his son is so little like him. Oh, I admit there is no malice in King Meldorin, but there is no strength in him either and the Prince exploits this to his advantage. Take, for example, this new tax on farmland. It is crippling me, Vesarion. My people cannot pay more than they already do, so I must make up the difference myself and it is ruining me. Have you looked around you? Why do you think this place is in such disrepair?”

  “But Sorne is mainly forest, not farmland. Why is it hitting you so hard?”

  Pevorion’s bushy red eyebrows came down in a scowl. “Because Enrick has decreed that since my people use the forest to make charcoal and provide timber it is, in fact, farmland.”

  “What!”

  “Do you want to see his letter? When I challenged him, he wrote to me himself correcting my…ah….misapprehension and pointing out that it could be construed as treason to question the decision of the King – as if the King ever made such a decision. He also put something else in his letter which has angered me intensely and which I am sure he has not told you about.”

  Pevorion arose, and crossing to the desk rummaged about in the mess until he found a letter bearing the royal seal.

  “Here it is,” he said returning to his chair. Vesarion waited expectantly as his host’s eyes scanned the lines. “Ah, here we are.
I wanted to give you the exact wording - he has told me that because my loyalty is in doubt, I can no longer raise a militia or employ more than ten permanent guards. There, see for yourself,” he said, handing across the letter.

  Vesarion sat up as if stung. “This is madness!”

  “I have wanted for months now to clear the nest of robbers out of Ninn. Like every other barony except Westrin, I would have to raise a militia to do it. There are over thirty cut-throats in that forest and it would take nearly a hundred men to flush them out. In the past, this would have been a routine matter, but now there is nothing I can do about it. Then there is the matter of the Turog. I have not the men to defend those settlements across the river and if things continue like this for much longer, they may very well have to be abandoned. All I have are my boys and ten men-at-arms to protect a barony the size of Sorne. Could you maintain law and order with that number? Enrick most certainly knows I cannot. I sometimes think he has done this deliberately to try and provoke me. Beforehand, I would have offered to supply you with all the men you could possibly need to search for this thief, but now I am emasculated by this puppy in Addania.”

  “He sees conspiracy in every shadow,” remarked Vesarion contemptuously.

  “He does indeed, to the point that I sometimes doubt his sanity. He is leading this land to the brink of civil war, for I am not the only baron to suffer. These are the sons and grandsons of the men who fought in the great battle of Addania against the forces of the Destroyer, it is unwise to think they can be treated as fools. In fact the only barony not to suffer so far is Westrin.”

  Vesarion looked at him consideringly. “Do you think he fears me?” he asked.

  “He does. I think you are the only one of his barons that he does fear. You command two thousand men of the Kingdom’s crack cavalry regiment, so he dare not cross you – at least, not yet. I think, if you will forgive my bluntness, that he is attempting other methods to bind you to his cause.”

  Vesarion looked a little uncomfortable and said nothing.

  “On the surface,” continued Pevorion, “it certainly looks as if his intention is to marry you to the royal house, thus separating you from the other barons, but he plays a risky game, for Sareth hates her brother, and well he knows it. She might, in the end, turn you against him. So tread carefully, my friend.”

  They both stared into the fire for a moment, reflecting on the magnitude of what had been said.

  Suddenly, Pevorion spoke again, as if a new thought had just struck him. “Where are the Ravenshold Brigands now? You said you were commanded to bring them with you to Addania.”

  “Yes. When I left Addania in such a hurry, I expected to catch up with this accursed boy within the day and took only the few men that you see with me. The bulk of the division, I ordered to return to Ravenshold.”

  “And was that order carried out?” Pevorion asked significantly. Their eyes met and held, neither under any illusion as to what was being said.

  “I don’t know. I had no time to wait and see.”

  “Do you think your men would disobey a direct order from the King in your absence?”

  “No,” responded Vesarion curtly. “They would not. Perhaps I should send my captain to find out what is happening.”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  “The theft of the sword, if indeed it was stolen, was a very convenient device to get me out of the way - and quickly. I must return to Addania just as soon as I can get this matter settled.”

  “I agree. If Enrick gets control of the Brigands, then you are no better off than the rest of us. So do not tarry, Vesarion, do not tarry.”

  The night was a fine one, with a silver moon riding in a clear sky. The darkness of the heavens was punctured here and there by stars twinkling bravely despite the brightness of their stronger cousin. The air was still and balmy, heady with the sweetly acrid smell of wood smoke, perennially evocative of the barony. The forest embracing the old castle gently breathed the fresh, living smell of growing things, a scent that always seemed to Vesarion to be more noticeable, more concentrated at night.

  He had opened the leaded casement window of his room and was resting his elbows on the sill, leaning out and breathing in the night air deeply.

  The castle was quiet now after the tumultuous banquet that had taken place earlier that evening in the Great Hall. Now peace had descended once more and the moon glided on its leisurely way, serenely shedding its largess dispassionately on the forest and the old castle alike, both asleep under its watchful gaze.

  But the man regarding the scene was not in harmony with his tranquil surroundings. Vesarion was troubled, sleep a thousand miles away. He had thought when he retired to the quietude of his chamber, that he would drift off the moment his head touched the pillow, but in fact he had tossed and turned restlessly, kicking off the smothering feather quilt, unable to settle. What was keeping him awake was his conversation with Pevorion. Ever since their discussion, all he had wanted was somewhere quiet where he could review all that had been said, but the banquet had denied him that privilege. To someone not in the mood for merrymaking, it had seemed interminable. Lord Sorne’s seven large sons had returned well satisfied from their expedition, bringing with them enough venison to feed a small army.

  The evening had started inauspiciously for Vesarion, because he had been forced to endure seven handshakes even more finger-crushing than Pevorion’s. He had then been regaled with a blow by blow account in the minutest detail of how every deer had been brought down. To someone whose interest in the chase was slight, this recital was even more testing than the handshakes. The brothers then attacked the mead with enthusiasm, which had the result of increasing the volume and ribaldry of their tales. Vesarion cast an anxious glance at Sareth, sitting across the table from him, deep in conversation with Lady Sorne, in the forlorn hope that she could not hear what was being said. She only once looked in his direction and as their eyes met, he read a mischievous twinkle in them that informed him more accurately than words, that not only could she hear all that was going on, but was well aware of his discomfort and was deriving an entirely inappropriate amount of amusement from it.

  By the time the meal arrived, Vesarion was longing for escape and only a rigid determination to adhere to good manners kept him in his seat. He noticed, rather sourly, that such considerations had not weighed with either Eimer or Bethro, for their chairs stood noticeably empty. The ruination of his evening was merely completed when the venison was carried in with great ceremony. Pevorion and his sons considered that the only food fit for a man was venison, freshly caught and slapped onto a trencher while it was still twitching. Vesarion looked at the huge piece of meat set on his plate, still running with blood, and prodded it gingerly with his knife, half expecting it to leap up and make a bid for freedom. But whatever his inward distaste, he schooled himself to behave with flawless courtesy, and stoically ploughed his way through the food, even summoning up a few hunting tales of his own with the aim of diverting Sorne’s eldest son away from a graphic, and very loud, description of his encounter with a woman of exceedingly relaxed morals.

  As the evening finally drew to a close, he felt it necessary to apologise to his host for the absence of the Prince and Bethro, but this proved a superfluous courtesy. Pevorion, who disliked Bethro’s airs and graces and resented being patronised in the matter of learning, was quite happy that he was absent. The young Prince, he excused indulgently on the basis that when he had been Eimer’s age, he had always found formal banquets a dead bore – much more fun to go out for a night on the town. Like Vesarion, he suspected, that both truants were probably ensconced in some cosy tavern, happily drinking the cellars dry.

  Vesarion, his temper sharpened by the evening he had endured, determined to speak to them both severely when they turned up, unaware, that at least as far as Eimer was concerned, his lectures always had the opposite effect to the one intended. For a man who prided himself on his ability to read others, he was obli
vious to the fact that he had a blind spot when it came to the Prince and his sister.

  He drew in a final breath of night air before closing the window. His present restless state was more to do with Pevorion than Eimer. He conceded that their conversation had crystallised some thoughts that had been floating around like a nebulous cloud at the back of his mind for some days now. The one thing that Vesarion disliked above all others was the thought that he was being taken for a fool. Such weakness did not sit easily with his view of himself as Lord of Westrin, although he was honest enough to admit that the more he thought about it, the more likely it appeared to be.

  By now, sleep was as distant as the moon, and acting on impulse, he crossed to the door of his room with the intention of descending to Lord Sorne’s study and purloining one of the musty books with the idea of either diverting his mind, or boring himself into a state of unconsciousness.

  He descended the ornate staircase in the darkness, moving quietly to avoid awakening the sleeping household and arrived at the great hall, now tidy again, all trace of the banquet cleared away. Although intending to cross to the study, he found himself drawn to the fire, still glowing redly, providing the only source of light in the hall. The little flames danced and writhed their way along the edges of the logs as he stared into their depths, trying to pin down the faint but persistent feeling that he was fast approaching a pivotal moment in his life. He didn’t want it, nor did he seek it. He liked his ordered life as Lord of Westrin just as it was. He didn’t want things to change. Inwardly and bitterly he cursed Enrick and all his destructive scheming. He had thought that by staying in his mountain retreat away from Addania and all its intrigues he would be immune from it all. But no, it was just as it had been when they were children – Enrick could never bear to see anyone content. It became almost a personal challenge to see just how much strife and dissention he could cause. And now he had an entire kingdom to play that game with. His reflections were interrupted by the sound of the great door being pushed open. In the stillness, he could hear someone faintly whistling under their breath, followed by a scuffling sound and mutterings of ‘why must they make these doors so damned heavy’.