by R. J. Grieve
Gorm, not forgetting the debt of gratitude he owed Vesarion, cut the harness loose with his knife, and fed the rope back down the cliff face to help him.
Iska had blankets ready and quickly wrapped them around the icy-cold figure of Sareth. When Vesarion appeared, he was hardly any less cold than the woman he had saved. Still out of breath from his climb, he lost no time but gasped: “Has anyone any spirits?”
The Keeper of Antiquities, like a child in a classroom caught in some misdemeanour, sheepishly raised his hand.
“I…er…have some. I happened to see a little bottle in the Rose Tower and ….er…well, here you are.”
He lifted a small triangular bottle from his pack and handed it to Vesarion.
Carefully, Vesarion placed the neck of the bottle against Sareth’s blue lips and managed to pour a little into her mouth. At first nothing happened but then, suddenly, she choked, took a retching gasp and began to cough.
Vesarion, almost light-headed with relief, sat down abruptly as if his legs would no longer support him, and did not notice the keen glance that Iska cast him as she wrapped his cloak around his shoulders.
Sareth was still in a paroxysm of coughing, caught hard against Eimer’s shoulder, so Vesarion, weariness and cold now setting in, held out his hand to Bethro, who had slyly retrieved his bottle.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I could do with something to warm me up.”
But upon taking a small sip, he too choked. “Good God!” he spluttered. “What is this stuff? It’s enough to bring the dead back to life!”
Bethro bridled a little. “It’s Sirkrisian spirit,” he explained defensively. “It’s not meant to be taken neat, you know!”
When Sareth’s coughing subsided, Eimer transferred her to Iska’s care and walked along the ledge to where Vesarion was sitting, his head leaning back wearily. Without speaking, he sat down beside him and after a moment’s hesitation, held out his hand. The hand that took his was still icy cold and raw with grazes.
“There are no words, Vesarion,” he said brokenly.
He got a tired smile in response. “Then say nothing.”
Eimer nodded. “We’ve got to get down from this accursed ledge, even though it means heading back towards the wolves, but I think we must take our chances. Once we get down to the treeline the first thing we must do is light a fire and get you and Sareth warm again.”
“And then?”
Eimer sighed. “And then we must either abandon our quest, or take the left-hand valley that we were warned not to take.”
Chapter Eighteen
Storm Fortress
“Well,” said Eimer, thumbs thrust through his belt, viewing the scene before him with a jaundiced eye. “Here we are again, back where we started. Sometimes I think that this accursed mountain is deliberately trying to stop us crossing it. The only difference this time, is that the choice is not whether to take the right or the left fork, but whether we take the way we were warned against, or turn back and abandon our quest altogether.”
He turned to his companions who were watching him intently and took stock of what he saw. They were all worn and weary and not a little despondent. Gorm, in particular, had not spoken a word to anyone since the avalanche. Vesarion’s hands were still covered in grazes and Sareth was only beginning to recover a little of her colour, now that they were down in the warmth of the valley once more. The only one, unexpectedly, who looked none the worse for wear after the debacle, was Bethro.
Eimer sat down on a warm, grassy bank in the sunshine and looked up at the mountains towering ominously above him. The peaks were still shrouded in shifting veils of mist. The thundery clouds, dark and bruised, still churned restlessly above them like tormented spirits. Somehow, the contrast between their present location and where they must go, seemed to Eimer to make the decision even harder. Yet, for all of it, he knew in his heart that his decision had been made weeks ago and despite their hardships, he had not wavered since. He thought about all that the wooden head had said to him, about all that depended on the recovery of the sword, and knew that as far as he was concerned, there was no decision to make.
His gaze descended from the mountains, to return to his companions once more. They were following his example and one by one were shedding packs and sinking onto the flower-studded grass.
“Well?” the Prince prodded, upon receiving no response. “The decision must be made. Do we go on, or turn back?”
A soft snore issued from Bethro, causing a tired smile to cross Vesarion’s features.
“One of us, at least, appears to be unconcerned. I think you already know the answer to your question, Eimer. We have come too far to turn back now, and besides, it has become like some kind of personal challenge for me to get across these damned mountains. Like you, I feel it is almost as if some sentient will is directed against us.”
Iska propped herself up on her elbow. “Did the Keeper tell anyone why he didn’t want us to take the left valley?”
“No,” responded Sareth. “He just said it was dangerous but was not any more specific than that.”
Eimer stood up decisively and dusted the grass off his breeches. “Right,” he declared, “I suppose we had better get going then. Up you get.”
But all he got in response was a groan from his sister, who flopped back on the grass again.
“Has anyone ever told you that you are very annoying, Eimer?” she asked sweetly.
He grinned. “Well, yes, actually – but I assumed they didn’t mean it.”
Vesarion lay back and tucked his injured hands contentedly behind his head. “For the first time in days, I am warm and comfortable and for the next hour not even an entire army of Turog could shift me from this bank – so sit down, you eager young pup.”
Vesarion’s hour mysteriously, but not surprisingly, expanded into two, so that it was quite late in the day before they resumed their journey.
The left-hand valley looked no more inviting than the last time they had inspected it. A narrow maze of dark, stony defiles pierced like stab-wounds into the side of the mountain. It seemed as if many rivers, descending from the snow-covered heights, had deeply incised their courses into the rock before drying up, leaving the floor of the maze filled with deposits of grey pebbles and coarse gravel. A barren place it was, where nothing grew; where the rocks bared their teeth, drawing the unwary into roofless tunnels of uniform grey. Far above them amongst the mountain peaks, could still be heard the occasional soft rumble, now distant, for storms rarely forsook the Cloud Mountains entirely. The sound seemed to echo along the defile, bouncing and reverberating off the twists and turns of the passage, unmuffled by the presence of trees or any other growing thing. Faded, sun-bleached branches, white as bones, lay in tangled heaps here and there, evidence that in periods of heavy rain, the arid valleys quickly reverted to rushing torrents of water, sweeping all before them.
Ignoring all side avenues, they followed what appeared from its size to be the major course. The defile was ominously silent. The only sounds were their footsteps crunching on the gravel, and the soft rattle of pebbles as their passage disturbed them. Apart from this, there was no evidence of life at all. Iska, who had paused to look at a distant stab of lightning far above them, was so affected by the brooding atmosphere that when she saw that she had fallen behind, she positively ran to catch up. Gorm, too, was not immune. He began to resume his old habit of checking behind him, sometimes walking backwards, his sharp eyes scanning the rocks.
Eimer, upon noting this performance, gave vent to a groan of annoyance.
“Now what?” he asked rhetorically of Vesarion. “The Turog is at it again. I thought we had left that kind of behaviour behind us.”
But Vesarion was not so dismissive. He halted and waited for Gorm to catch up.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
The Turog shook his head. “Not sure,” he replied curtly. “Got a feeling.”
“The same as before? You think we
are being followed?”
“Maybe.”
At that moment a small pebble rattled and bounded its way down from the rocks above. Gorm swirled round, shooting out his claws with a snarl, but as before, after a tense moment of waiting, nothing happened.
“This is driving me mad!” exclaimed Eimer, his sword half-drawn. But Vesarion and Gorm silently exchanged glances, apparently for once, of one mind.
“Perhaps you should fall a little behind,” Vesarion suggested softly.
Gorm nodded and sloped off unobtrusively, his grey hide blending so well with his surroundings that very soon he disappeared from sight.
He didn’t turn up again until they were preparing to camp for the night. Iska, who was a little separated from the others collecting firewood, gave a start and dropped her burden as one of the grey rocks on the riverbed appeared to rise up before her.
“Don’t squeak,” said the rock indulgently. “Only Gorm.”
When he arrived at the camp, he merely shook his head in response to the questioning look directed at him by Vesarion, however, whatever rapprochement the Lord of Westrin and the Turog might have achieved soon fell victim to their time-honoured bone of contention.
Vesarion, hunting in his pack for his box, discovered that it was missing. He gave a growl of annoyance and marching over to Gorm, peremptorily held out his hand.
“If you please.”
Gorm put his hands behind his back. “Haven’t got it,” he declared mendaciously.
Vesarion’s response to that, was to thrust out his hand even further. Gorm’s innocent expression dissolved into a scowl and grumbling to himself in his own barbaric language, he rooted around in his leather pouch until he produced the coveted item and placed it reluctantly on Vesarion’s outstretched palm.
Bethro, observing the ritual, muttered: “Rotten little thief,” but made sure he did so in a tone not loud enough to reach the ears of a certain sharp-clawed Turog.
But Gorm seemed to be in the grip of an overwrought emotional state that manifested itself again that evening. Since the avalanche, he had hardly spoken a word to Sareth. Usually, he hung around her, making off-handed remarks that had her laughing but recently it appeared almost as if he was trying to avoid her. As they sat round the fire that evening, he came to her and slumped down in a miserable heap at her feet. His head was bowed to such a degree that he had almost curled himself into a ball. After a moment, his frame began to quiver and a harsh sobbing sound began to issue from him. All conversation around the fire stopped as everyone looked on in astonishment.
Sareth, utterly taken aback, collected herself enough to speak to him in a kind voice. “Gorm?” she asked in some concern. “Why are you crying?”
His unprepossessing countenance raised up to hers, twisted with grief, and she found herself looking directly into his yellow eyes.
“Turog can’t cry,” he sobbed. Indicating the corners of his eyes, he explained: “No place for tears. Turog only cry inside.”
“But, Gorm, what’s wrong?”
He started to sob anew, an odd, discordant noise. “Promised Sareth would not fall, but Sareth did fall and Gorm failed. Broke promise and Sareth nearly died,” he lamented. “All Gorm’s fault.”
Sareth gaped at him, completely nonplussed. All the tales she had been told about the Turog since she had been a child, all the legends from the Chronicles of the Old kingdom, were circling round in her head. She remembered how all her life she had been taught to consider them as beasts without souls, the undiluted product of evil with nothing in their hearts but wickedness and cruelty. Yet here was one sitting before her, apparently breaking his heart because he thought he had failed her. And gradually as he wept, she found that pity and compassion began to displace all she thought she knew of his kind. She remembered the Keeper’s words that goodness could be found anywhere, that it was not excluded from any race or clan, and to her astonishment, she found herself beginning to believe that his words might even apply to a Turog.
Slowly, she reached out and placed her hand on his shaking shoulder. “Gorm, don’t be sad. You have not failed me. There was nothing you could have done.”
But he refused to be comforted. “Ran away – should have waited. Sareth hate Gorm now.”
The sobbing had stopped now and he sat miserably staring at the ground.
“Gorm, look at me.”
When he obeyed and she found herself once more looking down into the ugly grey countenance with it sulphurous eyes, she said: “You are my friend, Gorm. I do not hate you.”
The slanted eyes widened. “Not hate?” he repeated disbelievingly.
She laughed. “No, not hate - promise.”
With a change of mood that was so sudden it left her reeling, his usual toad-like grin shot across his face, stretching his wide mouth from ear to ear.
“Never had a friend before,” he declared with considerable fluency, suddenly restored to his old cockiness.
There was not a face around the fire that had not a smile on it, even Bethro’s, but one person in particular was unaware that he was regarding Sareth with a greatly softened expression in his eyes, which only observant Iska noticed.
Eimer, not as sensitive as she was, leaned towards Vesarion: “It’s quite remarkable how attached to Sareth the little rodent has become.”
Vesarion, his eyes still on Sareth, without thinking, replied: “I do not find it so remarkable.”
Even Eimer was left in some doubt as to what that ambiguous comment might mean.
However, later that evening, the Prince, although still unclear as to Vesarion’s meaning, was left in no such doubt about the Turog’s opinions. Eimer, taking up position at a slight distance from the camp to assume the first watch of the evening, suddenly discovered Gorm at his side.
“I wish you wouldn’t creep about so much,” complained the Prince, hoping his nervous start had gone unnoticed.
“Watch well tonight,” was Gorm’s response.
“Not this again!” exclaimed the irritated Prince.
“Something out there,” said Gorm, consistent on that point at least. He peered suspiciously into the enveloping darkness. “Feel it,” he added as a clincher.
A distant howl of a wolf echoed across the mountains.
“Well, there are certainly wolves out there, my small friend.”
“Not wolfs,” snapped Gorm, detecting mockery. “Something else.”
Then, having worked Eimer into a highly unsettled state, Gorm rolled himself in his blankets and fell into the dreamless sleep of a Turog with an unusually clear conscience.
The Prince paced restlessly to and fro around his sleeping companions, orienting himself on the last red embers of the dying fire, every sense alert for sign of danger, but as hour after hour passed uneventfully, he reverted to his former opinion - that Gorm was imagining things.
“Idiot Turog,” he muttered to himself in the darkness.
How little he thought, that within a very short space of time, he would be eating his words.
The next day drew them deeper into the shadow of the mountains. The clouds over the peaks thickened and the day closed around them in gloom. A dismal wind keened across the steely rocks, as if banished from rest. The granite maze became narrower and steeper until they were confronted with a series of stair-like steps cut into the living rock. These were so regular in places that they seemed almost to have been shaped, not by natural forces, but by the contrivance of man. The staircase zigzagged up the bare incline, until it finally emerged into another gravel-filled valley just as the first few specks of snow began to be whisked past them by the freshening breeze. The temperature had been dropping alarmingly with every upward step and they knew they were drawing near to the snowfields once more.
Bethro, who kept careful count of the passage of time by the state of emptiness of his stomach, looked around him at the bleak surroundings and suggested that a bite to eat would not go amiss. As the others divested themselves of their burdens, in
his eagerness, Bethro had already dumped his pack on the ground and was kneeling before it rummaging amongst his belongings for something edible. His search was, however, suspended when a small pebble tumbled down from above, bounced off a projection, and rolled to a halt just beside his knee. He stared at it, more puzzled than alarmed, until the feeling began to grow upon him that he was being watched by unfriendly eyes. That old sensation that he had experienced in the Ivy Tower, returned and all at once he knew with terrible certainty that something that meant him no good was nearby. He remained frozen over his pack, one hand still deep amongst his possessions, while the hair began to lift on the back of his neck. Summoning all the courage he possessed, slowly he lifted his head and looked upwards. There, perched on a ledge a short distance above him, was a creature he had never seen before. Its yellow eyes were fixed upon him in an unblinking, malevolent glare and even though Bethro had not encountered a Red Turog before, his readings of the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom told him all he needed to know. It was as big as a man, its species evidenced by the dull, brick-red colour of its skin. It wore a leather cuirass set with steel rings and a helmet bristling with sharp spikes. In its hand it carried its traditional curved sword - and there was little doubt that it knew what to do with it. Bethro, still immobile with sheer fright, gazed into those cruel eyes for a long moment, then suddenly recovered his wits. He let out a yell of such volume that it could easily have been heard in Addania. Everyone spun round in time to see the Red Turog leap down from its prominence directly onto the terrified librarian, knocking him flat on his back.
Eimer, who was closest, with lightning reflexes, whipped his sword out of its scabbard and engaged the creature just as its blade was descending on its hapless victim. The two swords crossed with a clash, barely an inch above Bethro’s nose. In sheer terror, he did the only thing he could think of – he closed his eyes and fainted.
