The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)
Page 40
Bethro, recovering quickly from his chastened mood, took charge of the dining arrangements next morning. He had arisen feeling refreshed, unaware that he had kept Eimer awake for most of the night with his strident snoring. Jocularly, and entirely inappropriately, he vented his disapproval of the lazy habits of the younger generation, who refused to get out of their beds in the morning. Poor Eimer, driven to distraction for most of the night, had finally got to sleep just as dawn was breaking when, for some unascertainable reason, the snorer had finally fallen silent. Now, dragged out of his bed by his exasperatingly chirpy companion, he grumped his way down the stairs and out into the sunshine of the busy square. Bethro led him to one of the wooden benches set at long trestle tables outside the inn to allow patrons to dine in the fresh air. Thwarted by the fact that he couldn’t order breakfast until Iska arrived, the hungry librarian occupied himself both by mentally making a long list of all the things he intended to have for breakfast and by watching the activity in the busy square. The streets teemed with street-vendors selling their wares from wheelbarrows and baskets, and Bethro ravenously contemplated a hawker selling delicious-looking apples from a large basket. Eimer, in contrast, was oblivious to what went on around him He sprawled across the table, his cheek propped up on one hand, his eyes closed in apparent exhaustion, but when the others arrived, Eimer forgot his tiredness the moment he got one glimpse of Iska’s face.
Vesarion, catching the glances of concern directed at his white-face companion, said: “I haven’t heard the whole story, but apparently Iska witnessed something deeply disturbing last night.”
Iska sat down on the bench, very far from her usual vivacious self, and could barely summon up the presence of mind to order breakfast. Sareth advised her to keep her story until she had eaten, and indeed, some hot food and a small glass of ale seemed to steady her. The agitated, frightened look subsided and beginning with the moment she had reached the crypt, she told them in great detail everything that had happened.
“Mordrian clearly didn’t know where I had been,” she finished. “But he knows much more about my activities than I had thought possible. I had no idea that he knew it was me who borrowed horses from the King’s stables. I fear I may have underestimated him.”
Eimer broke in angrily. “He slapped your face! The coward! I have no use for a man who strikes a woman. It is the mark of a bully. I would dearly like to teach him a lesson!”
Iska’s expression softened at his youthful gallantry. “Bless you, Eimer, for saying that, but there are few men who would be any match for him. He is a skilled swordsman and a powerful warrior. In fact, I suspect that there is only one man who might be able to beat him.”
“But you actually saw the sword!” burst in Bethro excitedly. Then suddenly recollecting himself, asked more circumspectly: “You’re sure it was the one? I mean, you’ve never seen it before, have you?”
Iska sighed. “Bethro, you have guarded the sword for many years. What is its most distinctive feature?”
“The three chalice flowers, their stems intertwined, engraved on the blade just below the hilt.”
“Then there is no mistake, besides, the demon, or whatever it is, called it the sword of Erren-dar.”
Sareth leaned forward. “So, you think it was stolen, not just to deprive Eskendria of its protection, but to make this new sword?”
It was Vesarion who replied: “My grandfather’s sword was clearly needed as some sort of template in order to make the black sword. Up until now, the Destroyer had nothing with which to directly counter the sword, but now he has. No doubt it will accompany Mordrian’s army when it moves into battle against Eskendria. Now, more than ever, we need the sword back again.”
“But the demon seemed to think that the black sword could not be defeated,” objected Iska.
“We shall see,” he replied dryly. “They would not be guarding Erren-dar’s sword so closely if it were of no value, so forgive me if I take leave to doubt that it is powerless.”
“That’s settled then,” declared Eimer with all his usual enthusiasm. “We must steal it back tonight.”
Vesarion could not resist a smile at such naivety. “Not so fast,” he cautioned. “If we succeed in getting our hands on the sword, then all hell is going to break loose and we will be pursued with all the considerable resources at Prince Mordrian’s disposal. No, we must not act precipitately. First, we must carefully plan our escape and there is one thing we require in order to do that – horses. There is little point in trying to escape on foot, as we would be overtaken in an instant.” He turned to Iska. “I’m afraid we must rely on you, yet again, Iska. Can you procure horses for us?”
She cocked her head to one side, considering the issue. “I can’t resort to my usual trick of borrowing them from my father’s stables, as there would bound to be a great hue and cry if five horses disappeared. So we must hire them from an inn or livery stable, and that will cost money.”
“I wish we could help you there,” Eimer offered. “But Eskendrian money is useless, even dangerous, here. Do you have enough without it?”
Iska smiled, something of her old cheekiness returning. “No, but I know where I can get it.” Seeing that Bethro was about to question her, she quickly added: “Best not to ask.”
But Eimer and Vesarion grinned at one another, guessing her intentions.
“Very well,” declared Sareth. “Our plans are taking shape. First, Iska will secure horses for us, then if she will draw a map of the crypt for us, we will meet later today and plan our theft – and hope that the demon is elsewhere at the time!”
“I hate to quibble, Sareth,” said Vesarion in some amusement, “but it is not theft to take back one’s own property.”
After the meal, they wandered out into the busy square and were making arrangements to meet later in the day, when they discovered that one of their number was missing.
Bethro had found himself hampered by good manners from telling Iska that her idea of a satisfying breakfast was considerably different to his. Ham and eggs were all very well, but what he longed for was some fresh bread, loaded with butter and honey. Unfortunately, just as they were leaving the inn, the smell of what he most desired wafted past him from the bakery a few doors down. Bethro’s nose, ever sensitive to such things, led him unerringly to the spot where golden loaves were being whisked from the hot ovens on long wooden paddles. The baker, easily reading the look on Bethro’s transparent countenance, knew he had a customer and readily accepted the coin offered in exchange for one of his loaves. He remained staring after his departing customer, a slight smile on his face as he watched the obvious delight with which his bread was being carried away. The coin was still in his hand, and as he stood absently fingering it, the thought crossed his mind that it felt a little odd.
Blissfully unaware that the others were searching the crowded square for him, Bethro sat down on the edge of the fountain to enjoy his purchase.
He had almost finished it, when his irritated companions finally caught up with him. Iska’s eye instantly fell on the last few morsels of bread.
“Where did you get that?” she demanded.
“The bakery,” he replied sullenly. “I was hungry.”
Vesarion was even more sharp with him. “You were told to avoid contact with the local people! Can you not follow a simple instruction? Have you no sense?”
“I didn’t speak,” was the defiant answer. “I just pointed to what I wanted and paid him without saying a word.”
It was at that moment that they were interrupted by the arrival in the packed square of a detachment of guards. Ominously, they were accompanied by the baker. The man rapidly scanned the crowds until he spotted the group by the fountain. His arm shot out, as he pointed in their direction.
“That’s them!” he shouted. “Those are the ones!”
Immediately, the guards began to battle their way through the throng towards them, roughly shoving shoppers and vendors alike out of their way.
Iska, rapidly assessing the situation, gave the only advice to her companions that was possible under the circumstances.
“Scatter!” she cried in alarm.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Scorpion’s Sting
The square had many streets and alleyways leading off it, and obeying Iska’s instructions to the letter, they each chose a different one, shooting off in all directions, dividing their pursuers.
Sareth, picking a narrow alley, found half a dozen armed soldiers in hot pursuit of her. She could hear the heavy pounding of their boots on the cobbles behind her and the occasional scrape as their long pikes caught the walls of the narrow passage. Deciding that her best hope of escape was to get far enough ahead of them so that she could double back, she flew with remarkable speed along the narrow passage, ducking and weaving between lines of washing hung out to dry behind the houses. Soon, to her relief, she began to discover that she had the advantage of them, and was beginning to pull ahead a little, for they were encumbered by their armoured cuirasses and greaves. Unfortunately, the alley she had chosen was deadly straight with no turns or side streets. On Sareth ran, desperately looking for a means of escape, when upon clearing the last batch of washing, she spied a junction up ahead. A quick glance behind, informed her that her pursuers were still entangled in the washing and had not a clear view of her. Putting on an extra spurt of speed in order to reach the corner before they emerged, she cast one last anxious look over her shoulder. It proved to be her undoing. Violently, she collided with someone approaching the corner at speed from the opposite direction. They both recoiled with such force that they were knocked to the ground.
“Sareth!” gasped the figure.
“Iska!” Sareth exclaimed, slightly winded. Hastily she scrambled to her feet, pulling her friend with her. “Quickly! They’re right behind me!”
“They’re right behind me, too,” cried Iska.
The two trapped women looked at each other in consternation for a brief moment, before Iska, coming to an abrupt decision, grabbed Sareth’s hand and dragged her into the open doorway of one of the houses. The hallway of the house was cool, quiet, and most importantly, deserted. Swiftly, Iska closed the door and turned the key in the lock. Trying to control their ragged breathing, they stood behind the door in the dim hallway and listened as the pounding feet drew closer. Sareth’s pursuers arrived first. They could hear many boots skidding to a halt outside the door and much loud confused talk.
“Which way did she go?” someone asked.
“Must have been to the right,” another voice replied, “for there are more search parties coming up the street to the left. Hey?” he shouted to some distant person. “Have you seen a woman running this way?”
The reply was indistinct to the listeners behind the door, but the owner of the authoritative voice must have heard it.
“Not that way, then. Maybe she doubled back, or perhaps went into one of these houses?”
The two listeners backed away in alarm, as the door handle turned and the door violently rattled.
“Locked,” said the voice in disappointment. “You there, take the left branch. The rest of you, come with me.”
Gradually, as they stood with their ears pressed against the door, the sound of the commotion began to subside. They released a relieved breath in unison and began to look around them. They appeared to be in the hallway of some sort of building that was in communal occupation. It was built around a small, dark courtyard overlooked by many shuttered windows. A flight of stairs led upwards to a long landing off which many doors opened.
“These stairs will probably lead us up onto the roof,” whispered Iska, her voice echoing in the cool hallway. “This area of the city is very densely built up, so it is easy to step from the roof of one building onto the next. I think it would be safer than trusting to the streets.”
Sareth nodded her agreement, and silently they ascended several flights of steps until they emerged onto the flat roof. It was dotted with tubs of flowers and some chairs but was thankfully unoccupied. Just as Iska had predicted, the opposite building was close, only a short leap away across the alley, but unfortunately for someone who disliked heights, the alley was three floors below. Iska took a short run and cleared the distance easily, landing nimbly on the roof opposite, but Sareth, who had unwisely looked over the edge, dithered.
“Come on,” called Iska encouragingly. “Someone with legs as long as yours could almost step across.”
Sareth, a little green about the gills but looking determined, backed off a pace or two and took such a vigorous leap that she cleared the gap with too much room to spare, lost her balance and landed with a crash against the tiled roof.
“Are you all right?” Iska asked in concern.
“I think I’ve broken something,” Sareth groaned and drew a shattered tile out from beneath her.
Iska laughed. “There’s no need to demolish the place! Come on, I know somewhere we can hide that they’ll never find.”
But Sareth had her mind on other things. “That idiot, Bethro, must have said something to make the baker suspicious,” she declared with unaccustomed acidity. “Did you notice he was with the guards?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, I think they got a fairly good look at us. The whole city appears to be in an uproar.”
“Do you think the others got away?”
“I don’t know. The best thing they could do is to find somewhere to hide. The gates will be closely guarded by now, so there’s little hope of slipping out of the city. I only hope they had the good sense not to go back to the inns.”
Iska led Sareth from rooftop to rooftop across the city until they arrived at a larger and more impressive square than any of the many squares they had already seen. Scanning the scene from the safety of the rooftop, they were reassured by the fact that there appeared to be no guards in sight. Iska pointed out their goal – a tall, slender tower on the far edge of the square that bore a large bell at the top, set just below its pointed roof.
“It’s the old belfry,” she explained. “it was once used for sounding the alarm in case of fire or other emergencies, but the bell became sadly cracked a number of years ago and they built a new tower over there. This one is never used now, except by the pigeons. It has been locked up and abandoned for many years now and has begun to fall into decay, but I know where the key is to be found, so hopefully we will be safe there.”
They descended to street level, and with Sareth feeling hopelessly conspicuous, walked casually across the square to the old tower. Closer inspection revealed that Iska had spoken the truth. The tower was mouldering away into oblivion. Its walls were covered in lichens and the deeply-recessed door was succumbing to dry rot. They slipped unobtrusively into the deep shadow of the doorway, and Iska, standing on tiptoe on the top step, ran her hands around the moulding of the old archway until with an exclamation of satisfaction she withdrew a large, old-fashioned key.
Inside was musty and damp with age and neglect. A frayed rope still hung down the centre of the stairwell for the bell-ringer who came no more. The floor was covered in a pungent carpet of bird droppings, as were the steps that went up and up until they reached a stout wooden platform set just below the ancient bell. Looking up into the bell’s innards, Sareth saw that its clapper had been removed, rendering it for ever silent. Like everything else in the tower, the bell, too, had been decorated by the prolific pigeons. The bell was surrounded by four arched apertures, guarded by slatted wooden covers. Many of the slats were missing or broken. Peering though one of the holes, she saw that a magnificent view was to be had over the square and the many red-tiled rooftops beyond. She was admiring the view, reassured by the normality of the scene, when her eye fell on something she had not noticed before.
“What is that?” she asked Iska, pointing to a
slender stone pillar, carved with many writhing snakes, that stood upon a raised dais on the far side of the square. Iska peered past her shoulder.
“Oh, it’s just the old Traitor’s Pillar,” she replied dismissively. “It hasn’t been used in years.” She handed Sareth the ancient key. “Now, I’m going to try to find out what has happened to the others. You must lock the door after me and open it to no one else. I’ll see if Vesarion has gone back to our inn – although I don’t think he would be foolish enough to do such a thing.”
“I should come with you,”
Iska gripped her arm kindly. “No, Sareth, you know very well that I will be safer alone.”
Sareth fully expected to be left to pace the belfry for a long time, but in actual fact, Iska returned within the hour.
Upon opening the door to her impatient knock, Sareth found her struggling under the weight of three packs and other assorted possessions.
“This pack is mine!” exclaimed Sareth in surprise. “And this one is Vesarion’s. How did you get these?”
Iska pushed the door shut and turned the key. “The guards haven’t found our inn yet. After chasing us all over the place, they have now begun a systematic search of the city, section by section. They have finished with the area around the eastern gate but haven’t reached our inn yet, so I was able to sneak in and get these.”
“Has Vesarion been back there?”
“No, there was no sign of him, nor of Bethro or Eimer, but……” her voice trailed off in a manner Sareth found deeply disturbing.
“But?” she prompted urgently. “What is it? Tell me!
“I overheard some of the guards talking. It seems that one of our number, I don’t know who, has been captured.”
When Iska had cried the word ‘scatter’, Vesarion had paused just long enough to ensure that Sareth and she got away safely, before choosing his own escape route. He picked a busy street with the intention of getting lost in the crowd, but from the very beginning all did not go to plan. Being the last of the fugitives to leave the square meant that the majority of the guards, a little slow to obey orders, had followed him. Moreover, his height made it difficult to blend in anonymously with the crowd, and he was soon forced to abandon the attempt at deception and take to his heels. Swiftly, he wove in and out of the busy throng, dodging past wagons, ducking under shop awnings, making many unexpected turns, but his pursuers were relentless. They knew the streets better then he, and had no compunction about knocking flat anyone foolish enough to get in their way. Vesarion, watching for an opportunity, spotted a shop selling farm implements at the corner of a narrow entry that vanished off into the shadows. Reaching the corner, he caught hold of a wooden stand laden with wares and overturned it behind him. With an almighty crash, rakes, scythes and pitchforks scattered everywhere. The guards, unable to stop in time, careered into the wreckage which, to the fugitive’s satisfaction, brought down two of their number. By the time they had fought their way through the obstruction, their quarry had disappeared around a corner, climbed a wall at the side of a single-storey building, crossed the roof and dropped down neatly in a narrow entry at the back of some stables. A moment later he was back, cool and composed, in the main thoroughfare, leaving the guards searching in entirely the wrong direction. Walking away discretely between the crowds, Vesarion could not resist a slight smile of satisfaction, which turned out, unfortunately, to be a little premature. He turned a corner to find he had run straight into the party of guards searching for Sareth and Iska. It was too late to retreat, so holding his nerve, he strolled casually forward, pretending to be fascinated by the wares of a shop selling glassware. But a warning shout told him that he had been spotted. He dropped the bowl he had been examining, and darting through the shop to the back, emerged in an entry with the guards hot on his tail, leaving in their wake a trail of broken glass and an irate shopkeeper swearing vociferously at them.