by R. J. Grieve
Greendell was just as it had been described to them – a small colony of wooden houses set hard against the illusory safety of the Harnor. It stood amongst a network of small fields that had been cleared from the forest. The wooden houses, although of the same sharp-roofed design as in Sorne, were much less ornate and bore the look of functionality rather than artifice. Nevertheless, it was a pleasant little village, its meadows filled with cows standing shoulder-high amongst the buttercups, lazily swishing their tails and regarding with total disinterest the horsemen passing through the fields to the inn.
Ferron, no respecter of Vesarion’s predilection for organising things, was gripped with urgency and would not even allow them to dismount, but announced with authority that brooked no argument, that as the afternoon was far advanced, they must make what speed they could in order to gain upon the boy before night set in.
Misunderstanding Vesarion’s expression, he added: “Never fear, my lord, we will catch up with this lad by tomorrow. He clearly thinks that he has shaken off pursuit, for he is not travelling at any great speed, indeed, from the wandering nature of his trail, I sense that he is not certain of his way. He is heading roughly northwards and that course, should he maintain it, will lead him directly into the heart of the Forsaken Lands and into regions that I am not acquainted with. Also, because he is travelling alone, he is putting himself in some danger from the Turog. Those scum are thieves, opportunists,” he explained contemptuously, “not exactly courageous, but they will happily pick off a lone traveller, whereas they will not tackle a party of eight, like us.” He indicated the remaining three guards. “Even if they do spot us – which is likely – when they see heavily armed soldiers like that, they’ll back off. There is little that goes on in the forest that they don’t know about. Their woodcraft is such that they can melt into the trees like ghosts when they wish to, so even if they are present, we are unlikely to see them.”
Eimer recalled how that night when they had camped around the fire, Sareth had asked their guide if he had ever fought the Turog.
“None of us has ever seen one,” she explained. “I mean, there is a description of them in the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom which we have all read as children – except Eimer, that is, who would never apply himself to learning the old language. But they have always seemed unreal to me, like the product of someone’s nightmare.”
“They’re real enough,” replied the huntsman. “I am told that there were three species of Turog in the old days. The worst were the Great-turog. They were over seven feet tall and immensely strong and cunning. It was said that no man could defeat one in single combat and no one ever did, to my knowledge, except for Erren-dar.” He glanced at Vesarion who was staring into the depths of the fire as is he were not listening. “Your grandfather, my lord, must have been an exceptional swordsman.” Upon receiving no acknowledgement, he continued: “They were all killed in the battle of Addania and now, as far as we know, none exist. Then there were the Red Turog. They were few in number even then, but were the most man-like, standing straighter than the common kind and able to ride horses – although usually no horse will tolerate a Turog on its back. They got their name from the colour of their skin which is reputed to be a dull brick-red. They were formidable enemies in battle, as they were skilled with both sword and mace. Whether they are all now dead or have merely returned to their master in his frozen wasteland, I do not know. The ones that are causing us trouble now are the common kind, which were always by far the most numerous. They are shorter than a man, shorter than you, my lady, for you are almost as tall as your brother. Grey skinned, they are, with yellow eyes and long arms that end in retractable claws. They are not particularly clever or fast but they have immense stamina and are strong for their size. Their favourite tactic is to work in pairs to bring down a man, one attacking from the front, the other from behind. As I said earlier, their woodcraft is unrivalled. When they wish to move secretively through the trees, they are impossible to track – even for me. Many times after they have conducted a raid, I have tried to follow their trail, as I am convinced they have a lair deep in the forest somewhere, but their tracks just disappeared as if they had vanished into thin air.”
Sareth looked around her into the enveloping darkness that lay in wait beyond the comforting glow of the fire.
“Do you think they are watching us now?”
Ferron smiled indulgently. “Don’t worry, my lady, we have a sentry on duty as a precaution, but there are simply not enough of them to have the confidence to attack us. No, the Turog only pick a fight when the odds are heavily in their favour.”
Eimer, who had been resisting the unmanly urge to look behind him, said: “Well I just hope we catch this thief tomorrow because I, for one, am not at all taken with the Forsaken Lands and would be quite happy to shake the dust from my feet and never come back. I don’t know what it is about this place but it gives me the shivers.” A loud snore from Bethro interrupted him at this point and everyone laughed when he jumped.
“One of us, at least, is not worried,” laughed Sareth, regarding the sleeper, lying flat on his back wearing a comically pious expression on his well-fed countenance.
Eimer’s recollections came to an abrupt halt when, for the third time that day, Ferron held up his hand signalling to the party to halt.
“What now?” muttered Vesarion under his breath, not entirely pleased at being reduced to subordinate status. Then, raising his voice, he asked: “What’s wrong? Have you lost the trail?”
Ferron signalled to him to be quiet. He dismounted and stood listening for a while, then treading softly, he approached Vesarion’s horse.
“The trail is still clear, my lord, and we are most definitely gaining, but…….” his voice trailed off.
“But?” prompted Vesarion.
“Something is amiss. I feel it.”
“What is it?”
Ferron looked around him uncertainly. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. The forest doesn’t sound right.”
“Doesn’t sound right?” repeated Vesarion incredulously.
“It’s hard to put my finger on, but even for this strange place, something doesn’t feel right.”
“Unless you can be more specific, I think we should press on.”
Ferron hesitated as if he would have liked to have disagreed, then slowly nodded. “The sooner we catch this boy, the sooner we can get out of this place. I think he is less than an hour ahead of us.”
Re-mounting, Ferron led them on a slightly meandering path between the trees that suggested that they were following someone who, if not exactly lost, was giving the impression that they were not at all confident of their route.
The deeper the pursuit party penetrated into the Forsaken Lands as the day wore on, the more they picked up Ferron’s sense of unease. Even Bethro, usually immune to atmosphere, was subdued. It was, therefore, with great relief a short while later that Ferron, in the act of guiding them around a dense stand of holly trees blocking their path, came to such an abrupt halt, that Eimer, hard on his tail, nearly rode into him.
“There!” announced the huntsman with soft but unmistakeable satisfaction, pointing through the trees.
Following the direction of his finger, they could all see a rider some distance away. His back was turned to them and he had stopped his horse at a point where the forest was divided by a narrow, rocky ridge. The dark head was turning to right and left as if unsure of which side of the ridge to follow. The matter was soon decided for him, because Bethro’s horse, recognising another of its own kind, let loose a piercing whinny. The fugitive’s head snapped round in alarm, and the instant he saw the party of horsemen emerging from the holly trees, he clapped his heels to his horse’s flanks and shot off like an arrow.
No one hesitated. In an instant, eight sets of hooves were thundering after him. The pursuit party, by virtue of the dense trees, could not follow en masse but was forced to fan out, each picking his own route, weaving in an out
between the trunks. This soon revealed their different levels of horsemanship, for conducting such an exercise at full gallop over such terrain required skill and nerve of no mean order. Bethro, for whom anything on four legs was essentially foreign, was soon left far behind in their wake, as the gap between the pursuing riders widened. Eimer and their guide were out in front, both clearly instinctive riders, although Eimer had the advantage of a fleeter horse. Sareth and Vesarion were not far behind, hotly pursued by the guards.
The boy bolted down a gully to the right of the ridge, taking insane risks in the interests of speed, his reins lengthened, his hands stretched forward, urging every last bit of speed from his mount. The trees flashed past at truly terrifying speed. All it would have taken for disaster to have struck would have been one low branch unobserved until too late, or one inconveniently placed rabbit hole.
Eimer drew ahead of the huntsman, the distance between him and the boy closing rapidly. He caught a glimpse of a white, strained face flashing a look back at him, which told him that his quarry knew he was losing ground and was now desperate. The boy’s horse was tiring by now, sweat flecking its flanks. Eimer crept closer, the nose of his mount reaching the leading horse’s tail. A few more strides and the two were almost level, careering along side by side. The boy tried swerving off to the left, but he could not shake the rider beside him. Eimer stuck to him like glue until he was in a position to make a snatch for his bridle. The boy, anticipating the tactic, swerved again, but Eimer matched his course, leaning forward eagerly, the horse’s hooves pounding on the dry, drum-like earth. One final lunge on the Prince’s part, got the fugitive’s bridle into his hand and he started to draw both horses to a halt. But if he expected his quarry to meekly give in, he was to be disappointed. Before the horses had even come close to stopping, the boy leaped from the saddle and tumbled to the ground, rolling over on one shoulder and onto his feet again, and was off amongst the trees in an instant.
Eimer brought the horses to a halt just as Sareth and Vesarion caught up with him. He tossed them the reins and in a moment he, too, was on foot, ducking and weaving through the forest in hot pursuit. Unfortunately for the boy, Eimer was built for speed. Although of no more than average height, he had long legs and was of a light, athletic build. The ground fairly flew beneath his feet and any hope his quarry might have had of escape, soon vanished. Eimer gained steadily, despite being a little hampered by his sword, and finally leaping onto a fallen log, launched himself at his victim and brought him down in a crashing fall. The two rolled over amongst last year’s leaves, struggling for mastery, but the Prince managed to grasp the boy’s wrist in a vice-like grip and forcing him onto his face, twisted his arm up his back, effectively immobilising him.
The others arrived, leading the two abandoned horses, in time to see Eimer hoist his captive to his feet. The boy let out a cry of pain.
“You’re hurting me! Let go!”
But instead of obeying this command, Eimer merely tightened his grip on the wrist and marched the captive over to where the others were dismounting.
At that moment, Bethro came trotting up, jogging up and down gracelessly, looking jaded by the exercise. Vesarion turned to him. “Is this him? You are the only one amongst us who can identify him.”
Bethro looked down into the amber eyes regarding him so apprehensively, and nodded sheepishly.
Vesarion transferred his attention to the young captive and remarked acerbically: “If you have been hurt, you have no one to blame but yourself. You have led me a merry dance for nearly a week and now I want some answers – and I want the truth, do you understand, boy?”
But it was Eimer who answered. “If it’s the truth you are after, I can tell you one thing.” He released his grip on the fugitive’s wrist and instead transferred it to his shoulder. “This is no boy we have been pursuing. This is, in fact, a girl.”
There was a gasp of surprise from everyone present, except the subject of this assertion, who merely looked at the ground sullenly.
“Are you sure?” Vesarion asked.
Eimer rolled his eyes. “I have just struggled with her on the ground, so of course I am sure – and please, Vesarion, do not be so inane as to ask me how I know.”
Vesarion turned to the captive. “Is this true? Look at me!” he commanded sharply. A pair of resentful dark eyes met his and suddenly he took in the fine features and the slender build and knew that Eimer was correct. “Why did you disguise yourself as a boy?”
“It was safer,” was the laconic response, delivered in a slightly foreign accent.
Sareth, feeling that a sympathetic approach might be more effective, said: “You need not be afraid. We don’t intend to hurt you. I’m sorry if my brother was a bit rough with you, but you gave him very little alternative. Perhaps you should come over here to this tree trunk and sit down and tell us your story. We have no idea who you are or where you come from but we do know that you were showing great interest in the sword of Erren-dar just before it was stolen.”
The girl, who had relaxed her defensive posture a little and had allowed herself to be seated on the log, suddenly leaped to her feet at the last words.
“Stolen!” She grasped Sareth’s hands in alarm. “It can’t be! Then it has all been in vain and I am too late.”
“Too late for what?” demanded Vesarion.
She turned to him, her face a mask of grief. “You do not understand. I came to Eskendria to prevent the sword from being stolen, and now……” her voice trailed off and she sat down on the trunk again and buried her face in her hands as if in despair. “Now it has all been for nothing,” she groaned from behind her hands.
Sareth looked at Vesarion and shrugged helplessly, indicating that she was unsure what to make of it.
Sensing they were getting close to the crux of the matter and suddenly realising that they had an unnecessarily large audience for these disclosures, Vesarion ordered Ferron and the guards to go to the far side of the clearing to wait with the horses. When they had obeyed him, he sat down on the fallen trunk beside the girl.
“I think it’s time for the truth. I shall know if you attempt to mislead me, so please rid yourself of any notion you might have trying to lie to me. You may start by telling us who you are.”
She stared at him in silence for a long moment as if uncertain what to do. Slowly she raised her eyes and scanned the faces of the four people watching her, before returning to her questioner.
“My name is Iska and I am the daughter of Elvorn, king of the land that you call Adamant.”
Vesarion’s eyes narrowed. “What nonsense is this? The Kingdom of Adamant does not exist.”
“But it does,” interrupted Bethro. “Queen Triana has been there in her youth. When she and Erren-dar and the others were crossing the Forsaken Lands on their journey home from the Island of Sirkris, they stumbled upon it by accident. It was protected by enchantment, a force called a Curtain of Adamant – from which the Kingdom gets its name. The curtain acted like an invisible barrier that could not be crossed by man or Turog and kept the Kingdom hidden, sealed off from the outside world. Relisar used his powers to create a small tear in the curtain that enabled them to get through it.”
“You believe all that?” Vesarion asked. “How is it that no one since then has ever been able to find this supposed kingdom? How is it that this is the first person in all these years who has ever claimed to have come from there?”
“Ah, yes, my lord, but you must remember that Relisar found documents in the great library in the City of Adamant that showed that the ruling house of Parth had betrayed humanity to the Destroyer at the time of the fall of the Old Kingdom. They used their dark arts to distract the Brotherhood of Sages and weaken them, so that the Destroyer could send his black spirits against them. Alas, the Brotherhood was defeated and, as you know, the Old Kingdom fell. Now all that remains of it is Eskendria. In return for their help, the Destroyer allowed the House of Parth to exist, hidden by the curtain of ada
mant deep in the Forsaken Lands, cut off from the rest of human kind by the evil deeds of the ruling house. Ever their clan has practiced these arts which ultimately derive their power from the Destroyer, for he is the master of such evil. Always, even in the days of the Old Kingdom, they followed their own course and would not accept the teachings of the Book of Light.” His eyes descended doubtfully to Iska. “I now know why you disguised yourself as a boy, for always the power to practice this black enchantment was found in the women of the House of Parth, never in the men.”
Eimer laughed disbelievingly. “Are you trying to say that she is a witch?”
“More likely she’s a liar,” said Vesarion sardonically.
“I am no liar!” declared the girl hotly. “I risked my life coming here to try to prevent the sword from being stolen and I find that not only has it already been taken but that you waste time pursuing me when you should be moving heaven and earth to get it back.” She turned to Eimer. “As for you, I will have you know that not only am I no witch but I have no powers whatsoever – a source of bitter disappointment to my father. He had two sons from his first marriage, my half-brothers, but he had no daughters, and a daughter he desperately wanted, for the women of the house of Parth have the ability to read minds and manipulate the thoughts of others and this ability has long been the source of the power of the Kings of Parth. No one dare rise against a king who can command access to their thoughts. So when his first wife died and he married my mother, who was the daughter of a noble family, my father more than anything wished for a daughter – and he got one, though it cost him my mother’s life. He thought finally that the means through which every one of his predecessors had secured their reign was now in his hands, but alas he was wrong. I have no power. In thirteen generations of my house, I am the first female of the blood royal to have no more ability in that direction that a peasant girl. As you can imagine, this was a bitter blow to him. I took the first test of ability when I was ten and failed it miserably. Apparently I showed not even the tiniest flicker of promise. Nevertheless, my father refused to contemplate such failure and made me proceed with the second test two years later. Suffice it to say that I failed that too, and my father was forced to face the fact that I was going to be of no use to him. So….so he cast me off entirely. From being the apple of his eye, I descended to being clothed and fed but otherwise ignored as if I didn’t exist. In the eight years since then, he has never spoken to me again or in any way acknowledged my existence. My schooling stopped and I was allowed to run wild and do as I pleased. I became like an untamed animal, like a rat in the city sewers. I spent my days roaming the city, finding my way into every nook and cranny, every hidden passage. It became a game with me to find my way into places that were forbidden and to do so unseen. I delighted in eavesdropping on conversations – sometimes to my detriment. As I grew older, my field of activity widened and I began to explore the surrounding countryside. I took, without permission, horses from the King’s stable and explored every forest, every hill, every stream within the Ring of Haleb.”
