by R. J. Grieve
Using the tombs as cover, each silent intruder flitted closer, making no more noise than the ghosts of the kings and queens now departed.
On a bare tomb that bore no effigy, sat two oil lamps, their tiny flames being the source of the faint light. Between them, a black velvet cloth had been spread across the level surface of the tomb in a manner that transformed it into an altar. Lying side by side on its sable surface, were two swords. Their scabbards lay discarded on the floor below the altar and their nakedness revealed their similarity. Exactly alike, they were, in all respects save one. The blade of the sword of Erren-dar gleamed in the light, its flawless steel embellished only by the three chalice flowers, their intertwined stems stretching towards the tip. It lay against the rich velvet, a thing of beauty and grace, yet its lethal purpose proclaimed by its razor-sharp edges.
The other sword was its mirror image in every way, except that its blade bore no gleam of light, for it was midnight black. Not a glossy black, like painted steel, but the blackness of a lightless night, of the heavens without moon, without stars; a bottomless void. It blended so well with the velvet upon which it rested, that its outline was almost indistinct.
“Is that the sword the demon made?” Eimer whispered, and immediately the echoes took up the question and rustled it around the crypt like the wind through a wheat field.
‘the demon made, the demon made…. made…. made’
Despite himself, Eimer shivered.
Gorm, who had been silent since they had left the bell tower, finally spoke.
“Should take bad sword, too,” he advised. “Stop evil men using it.”
“I think he’s right,” Eimer agreed in a low voice. “At least there seems to be no sign of the maker of the sword. I’ll take the black sword and you can put my cousin’s sword in its scabbard,” he directed Iska.
Gorm stayed where he was, his yellow eyes probing the darkness suspiciously, as if he expected the demon to rise out of a tomb at any moment.
“Why am I so nervous?” Eimer muttered as he approached the altar. “There’s no one here, after all.”
Iska stood for a long moment looking at the beautiful sword, trying to rid herself of the notion that she had no right to touch it. A nebulous feeling had taken hold of her, that because she was of the House of Parth, she was tainted and therefore not fit to hold the legendary blade. Forcing back the feeling, gingerly she lifted it by the hilt. It was heavier than it looked, yet was so perfectly balanced that it was not clumsy. She felt that were she but to swing it sideways, it could slice the very air into ribbons.
Whimsically, she spoke to it as if it were a living person. “I feel like I have been waiting all my life for this moment,” she told it gravely. “I have come to take you home.”
In response, it slid willingly into its scabbard, as if happy to go with her.
Eimer was finding himself in similar difficulties, but for different reasons. Twice he stretched out his hand to take the black sword and twice he drew back, pierced by a strong sense of dread that he didn’t understand. It seemed to him that the sword was more than merely inanimate steel. It was as if it possessed a will of its own, a sentience. Exuding from it was an emotion – malevolence, and he felt it directed against him. He tried to resist it, but the feeling found its way behind his defences and penetrated his innermost mind, making him irrationally afraid of it.
“It’s only a sword,” he told himself resolutely. “No matter what Iska saw, it’s only a sword.”
Gathering all the will-power he possessed, he stretched forth his hand for the third time, battling the will opposing him, and had almost touched the hilt, when without warning, a fork of red lightning shot from the hilt and connected with his hand. Intense pain shot up Eimer’s arm, right up to his shoulder and into his head. He gave a cry of agony and catapulted backwards.
“Eimer!” cried Iska, darting towards him. She was too late to prevent him falling, but Gorm was quicker and broke his fall.
Eimer was writhing and twisting on the floor in torment, his left hand clutching his arm. His eyes were rolling in his head with pain and he had grasped his lower lip so tightly between his teeth that it had begun to bleed. Iska couldn’t see a mark on him, but no matter what she tried to do to help, he paid no heed to her.
“Gorm!” cried Iska. “What do we do?”
“Give him sword!” barked Gorm.
“No! It’s hurt him enough already!”
“Other sword!” Gorm explained impatiently, wondering at her stupidity. “Give him good sword.”
Not knowing what else to do, Iska placed the hilt of the sword of Erren-dar in Eimer’s injured hand and instantly the writhing ceased and he lay still.
Even Gorm had not expected such an instant result and he and Iska looked at one another in amazement.
“How did you know to do that?” she asked in an awed voice.
“Good sword is opposite of bad sword,” was his explanation, leaving her to make of that what she wished.
Eimer’s eyes opened and he took a deep breath.
“Are you all right?” Iska asked him urgently.
“Yes – no. I don’t know. The pain has stopped but…but I don’t think I can move my right arm.”
“Evil black sword,” hissed Gorm, who was acquiring his arch-rival’s habit of stating the obvious.
“Vesarion was right,” said Iska, helping Eimer to his feet. “The sword of Erren-dar still has power. It has countered the harm done to you by its rival.”
Gorm by this time was fairly dancing with impatience. “Let’s go,” said he, with all his usual brevity. “Can’t touch evil sword. Must stay here.”
Eimer was swaying a little on his feet and Iska took his cold, numb hand in hers. He looked down at his hand as if it belonged to somebody else and with an immense effort of will, succeeded in getting his thumb to twitch a little.
“I think the effect is wearing off. It was literally like being struck by lightning. The demon certainly put great power into the sword and none of it good. Now, let’s get out of here.”
“You and Gorm take the sword to the grille and wait for me there,” replied Iska. “I’m going to see if the main door can be locked from the inside. I have learned from recent experience that the longer one can create confusion about what has actually occurred, the better the chance of escape.”
“Iska…..!”
“Don’t worry. I won’t be a moment. Now go!” To emphasise her point, she gave him a little push in the direction of the grille.
But as she turned towards the steps, her eye fell on the black sword, still resting on the velvet, and unlike Eimer, who had been repelled by it, she felt the faintest, seductive whisper of it calling to her. Her eyes fastened upon it, and she could not look away. So intensely was she enticed by it, that she failed to notice the flames of the two oil lamps flicker softly, as if touched by a slight draught.
The sword drew her hypnotically, and was beginning to blank out all other thoughts, one by one, when suddenly she thought of Eimer. Into her mind flashed a picture of him writhing in pain on the floor, and the charm was broken. It was like awakening from a dream. She had the impression she had been standing there for quite a long while, and remembering that time was pressing, she took a deep breath, and wrenched herself free of the influence of the sword. Ascending the steps two at a time, she reached the main door, and stood behind it, listening. She could hear the occasional clink of armour as the guards shifted restlessly on duty, but otherwise all was quiet. The bolt on the inside of the door was well oiled and slid home noiselessly.
‘That will slow them down,” she thought with satisfaction, as she bounded down the stairs.
But the sword had not given up. Once again, it caught her in its net as she attempted to pass it. Like a pin to a magnet, it drew her eyes to it and in a moment she was standing before it once more, her gaze riveted to its sable blade. As insidiously as a morning mist drifting between autumn trees, there crept into her mind the d
esire to touch it. One tiny part of her thoughts, still under her own control, cried out a warning. She knew it was evil. She knew it would harm her, but desperately she wanted to touch it.
Inside her head, she heard a voice whispering:
“You are of the House of Parth. Ever has your kindred served my master. Join with me. Be one with me, for you cannot deny who you are, though long you have tried. The Prince of the Lightless Void calls to you. Reach out and join with me.”
Slowly her hand began to edge towards it. Part of her mind still struggled against it, but the power it exerted against her was strong and relentlessly, irresistibly, it drew her closer.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Heir of Erren-dar
At that moment, a powerful masculine hand clamped hard around her wrist in a vice-like grip and wrenched her away from the sword, spinning her round in the process. The spell was shattered with an abruptness that left her reeling. She was on the point of opening her mouth to thank Eimer for saving her, when with a horrible lurch in her stomach, she realised that it was not Eimer.
Mordrian still held her wrist imprisoned in a grip that was so strong, it had stopped the flow of blood to her hand. His dark eyes were boring into hers with undiluted fury.
“So it was you! I should have guessed! The thief who steals horses and money, who even steals from my own apartments! And now you crown your sordid career with an act of treachery. Did you think that the black sword could be so easily taken? If you did, you are a fool! It contains power far beyond your feeble comprehension.” Impossibly, he tightened his grip even more, jerking her closer with such force that he nearly pulled her off her feet. “I gave you one week to leave this city and you have defied me. No one defies me, do you understand? No one. And believe me, my bastard sister, it will be the last thing you ever do. I should have rid myself of you a long time ago, and I will now make good that omission.”
With that, he drew a knife from his belt and held it before her face.
“I know that you have been helping the Eskendrians. Did you think I was still in ignorance of that fact? It was you who brought them here. Somehow you got them through the curtain of Adamant, didn’t you?” he demanded. When she didn’t reply, he shook her violently. “Do you take me for a fool?” he hissed. “It was you who helped them elude capture. It was you who assisted Westrin to escape. The guards said it was two young women who drugged them, and one of them fitted your description exactly. I have been searching for you for over a week now, and yet here I find you attempting to steal my sword, no less! You claim that you are of the House of Parth, but you are not. You are a cross-breed that sullies the purity of a noble line and you have no loyalty to it, or to anyone but yourself. You would betray not only your country, but your own father, and if you now think that I am going to let you away lightly by slitting your throat, think again. Not for you, the mercy of a quick death. You may have disposed of Ursor, but I have many like him, willing to place their talents at my disposal and believe me, sister dear, I give you my word that it will take a very long time for you to die, and I will be present for every satisfying moment of it.”
Eyes still blazing, the Prince released her wrist, and quickly grabbing a fistful of her hair, yanked her head back, exposing her throat to his knife, and for a moment Iska thought his temper had overcome his desire to inflict pain on her, and he was going to slit her throat after all. But at that moment, the Prince’s hand froze, his knife poised against the pulse throbbing just under her skin - for he had felt the icy-cold tip of a blade touch the back of his own neck.
An irritatingly cool voice said: “Release her, or you are a dead man.”
Iska, looking directly into her brother’s eyes, still read the wrath in them and for a moment thought that he was not going to obey, but gradually he gained mastery over his temper and lowering the knife, released his grip on his prisoner’s hair.
“Now drop the knife and turn around,” ordered the same calm voice.
The Prince turned to be confronted with a young man now holding the tip of his sword about an inch from his heart. In the other hand, he held the sword of Erren-dar, neatly encased in its scabbard.
“I see,” said Mordrian dryly, quickly recovering his poise. “You are one of her Eskendrian accomplices, sent to steal the sword.”
Eimer smiled slightly. “Permit me to correct you. The sword is not being stolen but is merely being returned to its rightful owner, the heir of Erren-dar. And secondly, I would inform you that I am Eimer, Prince of Eskendria and son of King Meldorin whose kingdom you threaten. Give me one good reason why I should not kill you where you stand?”
Mordrian was evidently not intimidated. “Ah, yes,” he responded amiably. “The idiot younger son of a weak king who cannot control his own family, never mind rule a kingdom. You would have been better to have kept your identity a secret.”
Iska, anxiously watching this confrontation, saw that Mordrian had touched her rescuer on the raw, for the good humour, normally never far from his eyes, had been completely extinguished and his expression grew hard.
“Taunt me if you will,” he replied grittily. “Prepare your army and your grandiose plans, if you will. Even consort with demons, if you will, but you shall never conquer my country because you will never leave this place. You can join your ancestors here as a permanent addition.”
Mordrian shrugged. “Big words for so young a man.”
He eyed him speculatively and Eimer uncomfortably felt the odd sensation that his thoughts were being read.
“I do not think you have it in you to kill a man in cold blood,” the Prince continued smoothly. “In the heat of battle, perhaps, but not like this, where your victim stands before you unarmed. I do not think you are capable of assuming the role of executioner. Am I not correct?”
And Iska, watching them both, knew that her brother was right. Eimer did not lack for courage but he was no cold-blooded killer.
Her heart began to pound again, realising that they were at an impasse. Mordrian, seeing Eimer hesitate, began to smile.
“Something of a dilemma, I see,” he observed suavely.
Iska intervened, cutting him short. “We’ll just tie him up and leave him here,” she said harshly to Eimer. “Don’t stain your conscience with his blood.” Then directing a look of contempt at her brother, she added: “He’s not worth it.”
Mordrian’s fury flared again at the provocation, breaching his rigid self-control and the look he directed at her was pure hatred, but in the end it was Gorm who resolved their problem.
Bounding forward out of the darkness, sword drawn, he announced bluntly: “Gorm will kill him.”
Mordrian’s eyes widened in astonishment, as if he could not believe what he was seeing.
“You have a Turog in tow!” he exclaimed. “In my city! In Adamant!”
But Gorm’s unexpected arrival distracted Eimer, and Mordrian, seizing his chance, swept the black sword off the altar and slashed it hard against his captor’s blade. The two swords met with a ferocious clash, and Eimer, caught by surprise, found that his weapon was dashed easily to one side. At the same moment, Mordrian roared for the guards at the top of his voice, alerting them to the presence of the intruders.
Eimer staggered back from the blow and stared at his sword in astonishment. Iska had provided him with a very fine weapon indeed, but when his eye fell on the blade, there was a deep notch in it where it had met its opponent. The damage was so pronounced that he knew his sword could withstand very little more of such treatment. Nevertheless, recovering swiftly, Eimer waded in for the attack. Yet again, when the two swords crossed, his blade came away damaged. He also began to realise with every blow exchanged, that the man he was challenging was an exceptionally powerful and cunning fighter.
The guards at the entrance had obviously heard their master’s call for help and were pounding on the door, frustrated by Iska’s providential bolt.
Eimer was by now no longer attacking, but fighting f
or his life. Never had he faced an opponent of such speed and skill. Desperately he parried, again and again, within a hair’s breadth of his guard failing, aware that he was utterly out of his depth. His sword was taking so much damage that he wondered how long the blade could hold out against such an assault. His face was soon running with sweat and he knew he was close to defeat, but his determination never waivered and not for one moment did it ever cross his mind to give up. Grimly, he battled on, as the crashes echoing down the stairwell from the door above, signalled the fact that the guards would very soon be upon them.
Once more, Gorm came to his aid. He began to attack the Prince from behind, employing the age-old Turog technique, forcing him to fight on two fronts at once. But even under these circumstances, Mordrian’s skill was such that he held his own against them both. Deftly parrying Eimer, he flicked the black blade backwards towards Gorm, with such speed that the small Turog nearly lost one of his ears.
Another almighty crash from above and the sound of splintering wood alerted Iska to the fact that the doors were about to give way and then all would be truly lost. It was essential that the fight be finished quickly. Looking round for something to help, her gaze fell upon the oil lamps still burning on the empty altar. Quickly, she grabbed one of them and awaited her chance.
Eimer’s sword crossed with Mordrian’s and the blades slid raspingly down one another to the hilt, locked in an unloving embrace. For a moment the two men struggled against one another for supremacy, each exerting every ounce of strength to overthrow the other. Inevitably, Mordrian, being taller and more powerfully built than his opponent, flung Eimer back. He staggered, struggling to recover his balance, and collided with Gorm, bringing them both down in a crashing fall.
Iska seized her chance. Taking aim, she hurled the oil lamp at her brother with all the strength she possessed. With deadly accuracy, it struck him on the side of the head and burst, showering him with oil that instantly ignited. He released a powerful roar of pain, and began desperately trying to beat out the flames with his hands.
