The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  “I’m telling, you,” declared Iska, “they must have gone downstream as I first said. I know you saw footprints in the sand but you can’t be sure what caused the prints,”

  “I’m certain they were……” Eimer began.

  But Iska interrupted peremptorily before he could finish. “You cannot be certain what they were, when you were so far way from them. I think all we have done is to waste two days going in the wrong direction.”

  “No you haven’t,” cut in a voice from amongst the trees.

  Quarrel forgotten, three startled faces swung round in time to see a familiar figure emerging from the bushes.

  “Vesarion!” gasped Sareth, and had to resist the urge to leap from the saddle and throw her arms around him.

  Eimer, unconstrained by such inhibitions, slid to the ground and grasped his tall friend delightedly by the shoulders. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “We’ve been searching for you high and low. Where’s Bethro?”

  “He’s safe,” Vesarion reassured him tiredly. “He’s in some bushes just a short distance behind me. Do you have anything to eat? We’ve had virtually nothing for two days.”

  Iska swiftly dismounted and began rummaging in the saddlebags.

  Eimer, who had now had a chance to take in his friend’s appearance, remarked tactlessly: “What on earth has happened to you? You look like you have been dragged through every bush in the forest.”

  Iska handed him some rye bread, which he wolfed into avidly.

  “First things first,” he said between bites. “We should find Bethro and get some food into him, then I’ll tell you our story. By the way, is that my horse you are riding?”

  Bethro was found fast asleep on a bed of dried leaves and could only be persuaded to awaken by the use of the magical word ‘food’. Eimer suggested that they camp early that day, so they could light a fire and provide a decent meal for the two wanderers. He led them to a slight promontory he had discovered when off on a scouting mission earlier in the day. It arose above the level of the surrounding woodland, giving a splendid view over the woolly crowns of the trees. Its level top was grassy, innocent of all trees except one spreading oak underneath which they camped. It also possessed the added advantage of a small spring. While Vesarion took possession of his belongings and went to the spring to make what repairs to his appearance he could, Sareth lit a small fire in a hollow, carefully feeding it dry twigs in order not to create smoke that might alert the Turog to their presence. She was not as adept as Iska at producing a meal, and plain fare it might have been, but to at least two of the company it was little short of a meal fit for the gods.

  The reunion was a merry one for all but one of those present, with everyone talking at once, recounting their experiences, laughing at the image of Bethro dragging Vesarion over the cliff by his belt. Even Bethro’s victim began to see the funny side, now that it was all over. But amongst all the chatter and laughter, one voice was silent. Sareth ate little and said less. She tried to participate by smiling and nodding now and then, but often without realising it, her gaze stared off into the quiet darkness gathering around their fire, as she let the conversation wash over her, aware only of the fact that the man she loved had barely spoken to her since his return. She reviewed the past few days, when she had been forced to conceal under a calm front the fact that inside she was sick with worry about him. Every time Eimer had stopped to look into the ravine, she had been gripped by the fear that he would find a body lying lifeless in the river. Her joy when she had heard his voice that afternoon had been so intense that she had to fight to hold back tears, but the ecstasy of the moment had been as brief as a flash of lightning across the sky, and she had been plunged back into heartbreak once more. He had spoken to her only once, to ask her, in that formal, distant voice that so filled her with despair, if she was well. Left with little other choice, she had replied equally stiltedly. Yet all the time, in her heart she burned with the desire to tell him that his safe return mattered more to her than anything else in the world. Only his forbidding aloofness daunted her into keeping silent.

  Finding her own thoughts a bleak wasteland, Sareth returned to the present to find that the conversation had drifted onto the subject of Erren-dar.

  “I don’t know how his story ends,” Iska was saying. “News of the great battle filtered through to Adamant, but after that – nothing. Contact with the outside world has always been banned, but the King has his own ways of obtaining information, and such reports usually wind up filed in the secret section of the great library. Callis has the means to access them but we have found nothing. So I have always wondered what happened after the battle.”

  She had been looking at Vesarion for answers but finding that, as always, when the subject of Celedorn came up, he had withdrawn and was staring absently into the fire, she turned to Bethro, who was only too willing to talk about his favourite subject.

  “Well, I don’t know how much of the story you already know,” he began. “But after fleeing from Adamant, the five companions found their way, quite by accident, to the Monastery of the White Brotherhood, hidden deep in the forests of the Forsaken Lands. It was here that Celedorn and Elorin were married by the master of the order. The monastery vanished the moment they left it and has never been found again, despite many searches for it.” He ignored a sound of derision from Vesarion, that showed he was not as oblivious to what was being said as he appeared.

  “After Celedorn, in his role as Erren-dar, killed the Great-turog and the armies of the Destroyer were defeated, he and Elorin returned to Ravenshold and restored order to a barony that had been lawless for a long time.”

  “Thanks to Celedorn and his brigands,” muttered Vesarion.

  “They say,” continued Bethro, “that the love between them was one of the greatest romances of the age, for it was Elorin who healed the bitterness in Celedorn which had lead him to his life as a renegade and she enabled him to find the greatness of heart to become Erren-dar.” He sighed sentimentally. “How I wish I had lived in those days of valour and enchantment.”

  “Were they happy together?” Iska asked, fascinated.

  “Indeed they were. They had a son, Berendore, Vesarion’s father, and for twenty years Westrin was a place of peace and happiness but then….. then one day, Elorin grew ill. Celedorn was distraught and in desperation summoned every physician in the land, even ones from as far away as the Isles of Kelendore, but it was no good, they could do nothing for her.” He looked kindly at Iska, hanging on his every word. “And now, my dear, we go into the realms of legend, for nothing is known for sure, not even by Queen Triana. They say that one glittering winter’s day, when a cold sun shone on a light covering of snow, Celedorn wrapped Elorin in a warm fur cloak, and taking her up before him on his horse, rode off into the forest with her and never came back. The only trace of them that was ever found was a brief note in Celedorn’s handwriting found in his study, commending his nineteen year old son to King Andarion’s care. Some say that he took her to the chasm at the Serpent’s Throat and together they plunged into the void, unable to bear the thought of being parted. Others say – and this is the explanation that I personally prefer – that they returned to the Monastery of the White Brotherhood where they had been so happy together and live there still, untouched by time.”

  Iska sighed. “That is a wonderful story, Bethro, and strangely it makes me more determined than ever to recover the sword. So much that is good and beautiful and brave is woven into its history, that I feel most strongly that it must be returned to its rightful place in Eskendria. Now that we are all together again, we must make haste to Adamant.”

  “Nonsense,” said a sharp voice. “We are not going off on some fool’s errand. We are returning to Eskendria in the morning.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A Voice from the Past

  A little startled, they all looked at Vesarion. A certain steely quality in his eyes left no one in any doubt that he was deadly serious.
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  “You do not intend to recover the sword?” Iska asked, incredulously.

  “No,” he replied brusquely. “Forgive me if I remain unconvinced by your recital.”

  “But how can this be?” Iska exclaimed. “You are the heir of Erren-dar. The sword is rightfully yours. How can you not wish to recover it?”

  “Permit me to introduce a measure of reality into this conversation,” he replied acidly. “Perhaps instead of going off into some imaginary realm, we should look at the facts. Firstly, we have only your word for it that you are who you say you are, and given that you have already deceived Bethro, your credentials are not good in that regard. Secondly, even if your story were true, we are ill-equipped to travel through such dangerous and unknown territory. We have only three horses between five of us and only enough provisions for another day or two.”

  “I have Ferron’s bow,” Eimer offered. “I can hunt.”

  But Vesarion, the bit well and truly between his teeth now, ignored the interruption. “You also tell me that something has been following you through the forest, that it even left my horse tied to a tree for you to find. Does no one else find that disturbing? And I haven’t even begun to talk about the Turog yet.”

  “Em,” said Bethro timidly. “If I might intervene. I find your arguments most compelling but in the interests of completeness, I must offer one thing in support of Iska’s story – this.” He produced from his pocket the small gold signet ring with the snake engraved upon it. “I’m afraid I forgot about it until now. If you recall, back in Sorne, I said there was something familiar about the symbol. In fact I have just remembered that a coiled snake is the symbol of the house of Parth.”

  He returned the ring to Iska, who placed it on her third finger where it fitted perfectly. Encouraged by Bethro’s intervention, she began to plead her cause anew, arguing with Vesarion’s decision, ably and vehemently supported by Eimer.

  Bethro said nothing further, torn in two opposing directions. The thought of returning to his comfortable study in Addania was tugging against his love of the legend of Erren-dar and his guilt that his laxity had permitted the sword to be stolen. However, remembering the danger and hunger he had endured in the ravine, remembering the shrieks of the Turog as they had pursued him, reluctantly he was coming to Vesarion’s opinion. He believed Iska’s story but he agreed that they were ill-prepared.

  Finally he summoned up the courage to suggest that they return to Addania to obtain reinforcements before descending on Adamant with the proper military forces – excluding one plump librarian.

  “Have you not been listening!” Iska cried. “No matter how big the army is, it cannot breach the curtain of Adamant. The curtain can only be destroyed by enchantment and none with that power now remain. The tear that I found is tiny, barely enough for one person to squeeze through. An army would be cut down man by man if it tried to use it. Our only advantage is secrecy. If a hostile army descended on Parth, the sword would be spirited away to some place where we can never find it. No, we must enter the Kingdom by stealth, and just as the sword was stolen from its rightful owner, we must steal it back again. Besides, my object was to recover the sword, not bring down my father’s kingdom.”

  “It appears that your loyalties are divided,” observed Vesarion, at his driest. “I was given the mission by the King to return you to Addania and that is what I intend to do. I am also responsible for the safety of the King’s daughter. How exactly am I supposed to fulfil that duty by taking her deeper into the Forsaken Lands? We were lucky to escape the last Turog attack. We cannot expect such good fortune again.”

  Eimer leaned forward, his earnest look illuminated by the soft glow of the fire.

  “Vesarion, the entire kingdom is not safe if we do not retrieve the sword. Do you not understand that? Do you not know that if our country falls, there will be nowhere left to hide, nowhere left to run to? There will be nothing left but death and destruction. Even Ravenshold, the greatest fortress in the Kingdom, will fall in ruins. We cannot let this happen.”

  “You seem very certain of this. Why?”

  Haltingly, realising that he was on weak ground, Eimer told of his encounter with the spirit of the woods.

  “The spirit warned me that at all costs we must get the sword back,” he concluded. “It warned me not to be deflected by those who might wish to turn back. I have given a commitment to Iska that I will help her, and I will not break it.”

  “A talking wooden head?” Vesarion repeated with scornful amusement. “Perhaps you forget, Eimer, that I spoke to you just a few moments before all this was supposed to have happened and I seem to recall that you were so drunk you could hardly stand. Do you really expect me to take what you say as credible evidence? A carving that spoke to you? Really?”

  “Do you not care that we are talking about your grandfather’s sword?” demanded Iska.

  He turned to face her squarely. “When Bethro told you the story of Celedorn a moment ago, what he neglected to mention was that before his true identity was discovered, for ten years he was known as the Scourge of the Westrin Mountains. He made Ravenshold into a den of thieves and criminals, terrorising the mountain passes, raiding and pillaging everything that came within his reach. He brought shame on the noble name of Westrin and although many considered that he redeemed himself by his actions as Erren-dar, I cannot forget the disgrace he brought on my family. So perhaps now you can understand why the sword means less to me than you think it should. I accept that you probably were not involved in the theft of the sword but I have orders from the King to take you into custody and return you to Addania, and that is exactly what I intend to do.”

  “We are not in Eskendria now,” said Eimer, with a dangerous edge to his voice that his sister had not heard before. “We are in the Forsaken Lands where the King’s writ does not run. You have no authority here. You have no right to arrest Iska and if you attempt to do so, you will answer to me.”

  Everyone around the fire tensed, under no doubt that the Prince’s challenge was in earnest. Only the object of his threat appeared unmoved.

  “I do not answer to you, Eimer,” replied Vesarion coolly, then added a little cruelly: “No one does.”

  The Prince, clearly stung by the retort, snapped: “You are behaving like a fool, Vesarion. You indulge in cynicism when the fate of the Kingdom hangs in the balance. All you care about is enforcing your will. Well, I say again – you have no authority here.”

  By now all humour had gone from Vesarion’s face and his blue eyes had grown hard.

  “No man speaks to me that way,” he said harshly. “Not even a Royal Prince.”

  “Then perhaps it’s time they did.”

  The two men had started to rise a little ominously to their feet, when Sareth, who had contributed nothing to the discussion, cut in sharply: “You are both being foolish in that particularly male fashion. We are small in number, deep in enemy territory, and you two want to fight each other! Try to put your pride to one side and summon up a bit of sense.” She turned to Vesarion, still staring tensely across the fire at the Prince. “Eimer is right. My father’s fiat does not apply here. In the Forsaken Lands you are not Lord of Westrin and Eimer and I can expect no special privileges because of our rank. Even Bethro is no longer Keeper of Antiquities. Whatever position each of us held in Eskendria is not relevant here. Here, in this wilderness, we are all equals, each as valuable as the next, and as such, each person has the right to decide his own fate. I suggest that the best way of resolving this disagreement is to take a vote. We should all undertake to respect the outcome of that vote no matter what our personal views might be. Are we agreed?”

  “A vote!” exclaimed Vesarion, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “I realise that such a concept is foreign to one used to exercising near absolute authority but even you must admit that it is the fairest way to proceed. I mean, all authority needs force to back it up, so what are you proposing to do with those who d
isagree with your wish to return to Addania? Are you going to tie them up and carry them back? Or force them to walk before you at sword point?”

  The last question was delivered mildly but was a home thrust – and Vesarion knew it.

  “Very well,” he conceded, not at all pleased at being cornered. “If only to prove that I am not the ogre that you all appear to take me for, we will vote on the issue.” He glanced round the fire at the circle of faces, their attention fixed upon him. “Which of you are in favour of returning to Eskendria?”

  Vesarion raised his hand, and a little reluctantly, so did Bethro. Unsurprisingly, Eimer and Iska, sitting side by side, voted to go on to Adamant. All eyes then turned to Sareth who had, so far, abstained.

  “Your decision, Sareth,” said Vesarion, watching her closely.

  Briefly, she met his glance and read the strength of his mind directed against her, willing her to respect his decision and she knew that she was in the position that whatever she did, she would lose. She believed Iska’s story, and did not doubt that it was imperative that the sword should be recovered with all speed, but she knew that she had got herself into the position that if she voted against him, Vesarion would see it as an act of betrayal and his anger against her would be implacable. Yet, if she abandoned the quest that her heart was telling her so urgently to follow, she was oddly certain that she would regret it her whole life. She was also convinced that Queen Triana’s assessment of their betrothal was correct – if they returned to Addania, where he could busy himself with other things and have little time for her, all hope for them would be lost. So with a swiftly beating heart, avoiding his gaze fixed upon her, Sareth voted against him. She knew, that she was leaving him no way out. Having given his word to respect the vote, and he would honour it no matter how much it went against the grain.