by R. J. Grieve
He smiled to himself. The prodigal had finally returned. Eimer sauntered into the hall without a care in the world. His jacket was casually slung over one shoulder, his shirt was hanging out of his belt and he had liberal amounts of straw stuck all over his clothes and hair. From his slightly unsteady gait, it could be deduced that the inroads he had made into the town’s supply of ale had been substantial.
“Well, Eimer?” Vesarion announced wickedly into the darkness. “Nice of you to show up.”
The Prince gasped and clutched his hand to his heart.
“For pity’s sake, Vesarion, don’t do that! You frightened the life out of me.” He peered owlishly into the gloom, and focused with some difficulty on the silhouette of his friend against the red glow of the fire.
“Oh, there you are. Why are you still up? I think it’s quite late,” he declared a little uncertainly.
“Where have you been? Or need I ask? And what, may I ask, have you done with Bethro?”
The Prince looked vaguely around him as if he had dropped something. “Em….don’t know,” he finally pronounced. “He left a bit ahead of me ….I think. He should be back by now.”
“No doubt he’ll show up. You’ve straw in your hair, by the way.”
Eimer, going slightly cross-eyed, managed to grasp a straw hanging over his forehead and inspected it as if he had never seen such a thing before.
“Farmer’s daughter?” Vesarion inquired dryly.
“Certainly not!” declared Eimer, outraged. Then descending from the heights of dignity, added: “Barmaid, actually. A lovely girl. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A figure like….” Unable to think of a simile, he ended lamely: “Very pretty.”
“And very willing,” agreed his companion sardonically. “Judging by the amount of straw stuck to you.”
But Eimer was in no mood to be lectured. “You know your trouble, Vesarion? You are fast becoming a dried up old stick, as crusty and correct as someone’s maiden aunt. Maybe what you need is a tumble in a hayloft with a pretty barmaid. That is, if you are capable of anything so human.”
Vesarion’s lips twitched. “You forget that I am engaged to your sister.”
“So I did,” his erratic young friend admitted. Eimer appeared to think this over and announced aggressively. “She’s too good for you, if you ask me.”
Vesarion could no longer suppress a grin. “That is not exactly what you told me in Addania, if my memory serves me correctly.”
Eimer sat down suddenly on a chair by the fire as if his legs had given way under him. “I have changed my mind,” he announced grandiloquently.
“You missed the banquet.”
“Was it as bad as I thought it was going to be?” Eimer enquired, grinning engagingly.
“Young pup,” said Vesarion, the last vestiges of his irritation evaporating. “Of course it was, in fact, probably worse.”
“I, on the other hand,” declared the reprobate smugly, “had a very pleasant evening. I say, Vesarion, I never knew any man to put away so much mead as Bethro. I have seen a whole new side to him. Quite amazing, really. He even knows quite a few songs that I haven’t heard before.”
“Respectable?”
The Prince gave a crack of laughter. “Not in the least!”
Vesarion smiled. “Get to bed and sleep it off, you impossible young whelp. You are going to have one hell of a headache in the morning – and serves you right, too. If I had to suffer through that atrocious banquet, it’s only fair that you should suffer as well.”
With that friendly admonition, he headed back up the staircase, forgetting the reason he had come down in the first place. He left the Prince sprawled in the chair by the fire, engaged, not very successfully, in trying to pick straw out of his clothes.
It was while engaged in this taxing occupation that the Prince thought that he heard someone call his name. He turned in his chair.
“Vesarion?” he enquired into the darkness. When he received no answer, he assumed that he had imagined it and reclined back in his chair again, re-living certain pleasurable moments of his evening.
“Prince Eimer,” a voice said again, so close to him that he jumped. He sat bolt upright in his chair and looked carefully around the darkened hall. His eyes were accustomed to the dimness by now, and the soft, intimate glow of the fire gave enough light for him to establish that he was alone.
“Must have had too much ale,” he muttered.
“My lord Prince,” said the voice again, a little louder, sounding as if it was right beside him. Once again, Eimer jerked into a upright position as if he had been stung.
“Who’s there?”
“I am.”
The Prince looked round him wildly, still unable to account for what he was hearing.
“I can’t see you. Show yourself.” When there was no reply, he demanded: “Where are you?”
“I am here,” said the voice again.
Eimer swallowed, wondering if he was going insane. “It’s no use. I can’t see you.”
“That’s because you are looking in the wrong place. Look up.”
He did as he was bid but could see nothing other than the roof above him, supported by its carved beams.
“Look more closely,” advised the voice.
The Prince’s eyes began to examine the tracery of vine leaves out of which rose the carved heads with their frozen, maniacal expressions. With a sudden stab of panic, he realised that one head was not frozen. Before Eimer’s astounded gaze, it turned from its posture of rigid laughter and looked down at him, its wooden eyes fixed upon him.
He gasped and gripped the arms of his chair, vowing inwardly never to drink to excess again.
The head smiled, stretching its wooden lips. “I see you have found me.”
Eimer watched in disbelief, as the carved lips formed the words.
“What….what are you?” he stammered.
“I am whatever you want me to be,” replied the head provokingly. “I can take any form I wish. However, I suppose you would refer to me as a spirit of the wood. These beams were carved from the mighty oak that formed my home in the days before the fall of the Old Kingdom. Sometimes I visit my old home, but ever more seldom. I find the world of men a place where I do not wish to linger. “
“This is crazy,” declared Eimer to the room in general. “I’m talking to a piece of wood.”
The head laughed softly. “I can take another form if you wish. I could take the form of a wolf, or a deer, or perhaps you prefer something more abstract like a flame or a cloud? Although I must confess that I have not taken corporeal form in such a long time that I cannot vouch for the results.”
“No!” Yelped Eimer in alarm. “It’s bad enough talking to a wooden head.”
“Very well, young Prince. Calm yourself, I beg, for you may be assured that I mean you no harm – quite the reverse, in fact.” The head looked around the hall to reassure itself that they were still alone. Eimer could almost hear its wooden neck creaking. When its eyes returned to him, it said solemnly: “I have come to give you a warning.”
“Warning?”
“You must on no account abandon your search for the sword. No matter what your companions may say, no matter what they may wish to do, you must persist. The sword carries with it not only the fate of the Kingdom of Eskendria but the fate of humanity - that wayward race of men that we spirits call the Children of Light. Every moment that the sword remains outside the boundaries of the Kingdom, you are in the most terrible danger. Pursue it, Prince Eimer, with unswerving dedication until you find it and bring it home again. Remember that it was made in the forges of the Old Kingdom with a skill that has now been lost, for in those days when it was still glowing from the heat of the furnace, one of the ancient orders of Sages, the Master of the White Brotherhood, blessed it with incantations against evil that have now long been forgotten. There are now none left with such power, and its like can never be created again. So you must find it, and quickly.”
“
I have heard the legend that a hostile army can never cross Eskendria’s borders while the sword is with us. Are you telling me that it is not just legend. Surely it is just a myth?”
“It is nothing of the sort,” snapped the head, the graining on its forehead contracting into a frown. “It is the very truth. Moreover, there are many things about the sword that are not yet known. An evil will is bent against it, for the Destroyer suspects that the power of good, once maintained by the Orders of Sages, is now weak enough to be broken. Since you now have no one left with the skill or knowledge to use the Book of Incantations, the sword has become the last relic of that power. The last of the Brotherhood is dead, and enchantment has gone from this land. You will feel its lack before your journey is done, but you must continue with what resources you have.”
“What journey?”
The head appeared to be of the opinion that he was being deliberately obtuse, for it said tetchily: “Have you not been listening? You have become complacent in Eskendria. You think that because you have had over sixty years of peace that you have no enemies left. Do you think that because the Destroyer has retreated to his frozen wastes in the north that he no longer exists? His goal has always been to eradicate humanity like some invasive weed, and that goal has not changed. It will remain thus until the end of time, or until the Destroyer is himself destroyed. He retreats only to plan anew. Sixty years, which seems so long to you, is but the blink of an eye to him. The theft of the sword is merely a prelude to his plans.”
“How do I find the sword?”
“Do as you have been doing. Follow your fugitive. Remember, some of your party will want to turn back – on no account must you agree, no matter how hopeless things seem.”
At that moment, a small door at the end of the hall opened and a servant, carrying a lighted candle, emerged into the room.
Eimer glanced up rapidly but the face once more was frozen into its former mask of cynical laughter, all trace of animation gone.
The servant brought the candle to him. “My Lord of Westrin asked me to show you to your room, Your Highness.”
“Well, he needn’t have bothered,” said Eimer, huffily. “I am perfectly capable of getting there myself.”
With a final glance at the carving, he headed purposefully to the foot of the staircase, before stopping abruptly in his tracks.
“Em…..which room is it again?” he asked plaintively.
Chapter Nine
Iska’s Tale
Vesarion had never crossed into the Forsaken Lands before. Although the northern part of his barony bordered the Harnor, the closest he had ever come to them was to stand on the southern edge of the chasm called the Serpent’s Throat, and stare into the densely ranked trees on the opposite side of the gulf. Now he was amongst those trees, heading ever deeper into the Great Forest on the trail of the fugitive, and he liked it not at all. It was hard to define exactly what was different about this place. The trees were the same as across the river in Sorne; the same great oaks and beeches decked in fresh spring greenery, the same sparse undergrowth of ground elder and wood anemones, the same shafts of sunlight slanting between the leaves. But something in the atmosphere was definitely different. Perhaps it was the silence. Although there were birds amongst the branches, they seemed to call to one another with less frequency than in Sorne, their joy in the bright spring day somehow muted. Perhaps it was the nebulous but insistent feeling of being watched, that caused various members of the party at intervals to turn in the saddle and look uneasily behind them. And yet nothing that would present any danger had been seen since they had crossed the Harnor the previous afternoon. Indeed, even spending the night there had revealed nothing untoward.
Pevorion had been true to his word and had dispatched his sons to the bridges at first light on the morning after the banquet. While awaiting their return, Vesarion had occupied himself profitably in instructing Captain Seldro to return to Addania with orders to find out as discreetly as possible, if the Ravenshold Brigands had obeyed their orders to return to Westrin. He had not told Seldro the reason for his actions but there was little need. The Captain was no fool and was perfectly aware of the state of distrust between his master and the Crown Prince. Only one thing about his mission was unclear to him.
“Where will I report to you upon my return, my lord?”
“Report here, to Forestfleet. Most likely I am going to have to cross into the Forsaken Lands in pursuit of this accursed brat, so if I am not here when you return, there is no point in trying to follow me into such uncharted territory. Just wait for me here. I shouldn’t be more than a few days, as hopefully he is not too far ahead of us.”
Vesarion was not the only one upon whom the atmosphere was having a baleful effect. Prince Eimer brought up the rear of the cavalcade, uncertain whether it was his surroundings or merely the lingering effects of his convivial evening of two night’s ago that was making him uneasy. After sleeping off the worst of the effects of his night’s potations, he had descended the next morning to the great hall just as everyone was sitting down to breakfast, unaware that he was both unshaven and bleary-eyed and not a very appetising prospect to look at across a breakfast table. He slumped down on the seat beside Sareth, casting a surreptitious glance at the beam above him. The wooden head was transfixed in its usual position of twisted laughter, as if finding his confusion amusing, and he seriously began to think that he had imagined it all. There was certainly no point in telling anyone, as he well knew that the only response he would get would be an unmerciful teasing about his inability to hold his wine. Indeed, Pevorion was already making ponderous jokes at his expense, in a voice so hale and loud that the hung-over Prince almost winced in pain. However, he was enough awake to notice that eight chairs around the table were empty. Seven sons and one Keeper of Antiquities were clearly missing.
He nudged Sareth. “Where’s Bethro?”
She looked at him in amused surprise. “I thought you’d know. Didn’t you two roll home together in the small hours?”
The Prince rather rashly shook his head and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“No,” he groaned. “He left the tavern ahead of me. I haven’t seen him since.”
Neither, upon enquiry, had anybody else, however, a brief search of the castle soon revealed the answer. Bethro was blissfully asleep in the stables, lying contentedly on his back in a stall, virtually under the hooves of a stallion with a nasty reputation for kicking anything it didn’t like. It took two stable lads to hold the horse and two more to get Bethro on his feet. He peered at them myopically, swaying a little and blinking in the strong sunlight coming through the open door, clearly without the slightest idea how he had got there.
By noon, my lord of Sorne’s eldest son had returned with all the haste of a man with something urgent to impart. He was soon closeted with his father and his guests amongst the musty books in the old study.
“I have both good and ill tidings, father,” he announced urgently. “The good news is that I have picked up the boy’s trail but unfortunately it is as you suspected, he has fled into the Forsaken Lands. Apparently he crossed the wooden bridge at Greendell yesterday afternoon, where he exchanged his carthorse for a riding horse at the inn. It wasn’t a straight exchange, as a farm horse is not worth as much as a decent riding horse and he also had to buy a saddle and some provisions, so he gave the landlord of the inn this in payment.”
He held out his hand and everyone leaned forward as he uncurled his fingers to reveal a small gold signet ring sitting on his palm. Vesarion was about to reach forward to examine it when, to his annoyance, Bethro’s hand shot out and grasped the ring between finger and thumb, holding it to the light to reveal that it was emblazoned with a curious symbol like a coiled snake.
“This is somehow familiar,” he murmured musingly, turning it once more to catch the light. “Now where have I seen you before?”
“Perhaps your mind would work better if you didn’t befuddle it with ale,” obse
rved Vesarion acidly. The object of this barb clearly wasn’t listening but was still staring in fascination at the ring as if willing it to answer his question.
Sareth, who had been peeping over Bethro’s shoulder, remarked: “The symbol is not familiar to me but it’s clearly a signet and they are usually emblazoned with coats of arms or other marks denoting the affiliation of the wearer – in other word, I doubt it’s just a pretty decoration. It’s also rather small. I suppose it must be intended to be worn on the little finger.”
Pevorion, disinterested in the ring, and impatient with all the talk, interrupted: “All this doesn’t matter. When you catch up with this young troublemaker, you can choke out of him all the information you could wish. Now, there is no time to waste. Saddle up at once and my son will take you to Greendell.” He turned to his heir. “When you get there, tell Ferron that he is to act as their guide – upon my orders, mind. You’re not to let him wriggle out of it.”
“Who is Ferron?” asked Eimer.
“Best huntsman and tracker in all of this barony. Knows the Forsaken Lands better than anyone. Your thief is not so far ahead of you now and I’ll wager my last crown that Ferron will find him for you within two days at the most. Besides, he has experience with the Turog which my lads do not. The brutes are few in number, so I think it unlikely that they would attempt to attack a large party like yours, but better safe than sorry and I’d feel happier knowing I have given you my best guide.”
Eimer, now trailing along behind Ferron through the trackless forest, had to admit that Pevorion hadn’t lied. No mean huntsman himself, Eimer realised within a very short space of time of meeting the lean, rather taciturn tracker that he was completely out-classed. Ferron could read the significance of even a bent blade of grass. He knew the alarm call of every bird, the paw and hoof prints of every animal. He could tell if deer prints were made by a doe or a buck and how long ago the animal had passed that way. When they had arrived at Greendell and parted company with Pevorion’s son, they had found him awaiting them impatiently outside the inn. He had already picked up the trail and followed it some distance into the forest before returning to the inn to meet with them. Now he was keen to be about his business.
