by R. J. Grieve
Darting forward, Iska snatched up the sword of Erren-dar and catching Eimer’s hand, dragged him after her. Together, they sped down the crypt, dodging between the tombs, until they reached the grille.
Mordrian’s bellows of pain could still be heard echoing between the silent effigies of the dead kings, but added to that was the thunderous sound of many guards descending the stairs at the double.
Eimer wrenched the grille aside and fairly tossed Iska and Gorm out before him.
Together, they fled across the darkened parkland, heading for the boundary wall. As they reached it, Eimer glanced back, and saw in the distance behind them, torch after flaming torch appear in the night, bobbing about in the darkness as guards responded by the dozen to the Prince’s orders to pursue them.
Eimer remembered that when they had been hatching their plan to take the sword, he had indulged in the sanguine hope that they might be able to retrieve it undetected, but Iska had been less optimistic. She had insisted that they prepare an escape plan that took into account the fact that they might very well stir up a hornet’s nest. As they hurriedly scaled the wall, using the old ivy, Eimer, hearing the commotion behind them, was intensely grateful that he had listened to her. However, when they jumped down on the other side, he couldn’t resist grinning at her.
“Accept my compliments on a magnificent shot,” he offered teasingly.
“You have no idea, Eimer,” she replied feelingly. “Usually I couldn’t hit the side of a barn at ten paces. That was a sheer fluke.”
“No less effective because of it,” he commended, pulling their packs out from behind the bushes where they had concealed them.
A few short paces took them onto the cobbled surface of the darkened street, into which was set one of the ubiquitous metal hatches giving access to the storm drains. In an instant they had dropped down it and disappeared from sight.
During their sojourn in the tower, Gorm had gone out every evening as soon as darkness fell and disappeared down the hatch nearest the tower. He then spent an interesting, if slightly messy time crawling about the tunnels, familiarising himself with their layout until he knew them better than Iska. It was he who discovered the drain which led outside the city wall through which Bethro had been ejected. Now he was leading them to it once more, crawling along rapidly, occasionally having to stop to wait for his slower companions to catch up.
They had by now left the sounds of pursuit behind, and Eimer and Iska crawled along in the musty dampness, trying not to think about what they might be putting their hands in, and keeping in sight the tiny candle that Gorm carried, wavering along erratically in the darkness like a will-o’-the-wisp ahead of them.
As they approached the outlet, Gorm doused the light and crept forward cautiously, sniffing the air. The drain emerged through the city wall several feet above a channel, just now devoid of water. The Turog, satisfied that they were alone, jumped down with all the grace of a sack of onions and held up his hands to receive their packs. The eastern gate was only a short distance away, set behind the angle of the wall. Just as they were ready to depart, they heard the sound of much shouting and several indistinct orders being issued. The effect of the orders was, however, in no doubt. With a groan of ancient hinges, followed by a reverberating thud, they heard the heavy gate being slammed shut and the bar dropped into place.
Eimer grinned in the darkness, the significance not lost upon him. “They think we’re still in the city,” he whispered gleefully. “They’re going to waste hours searching the streets for us.”
His boyish delight was infectious and Iska couldn’t resist smiling back, but she entered a word of caution.
“We must get going, because it is essential that we put as much distance between us and the city as we can before daylight. I want to get to less populated regions because of Gorm. You and I might pass unnoticed, but it’s not every day that one sees a Turog walking though Adamant.”
The reunion of the company at the cavern of Sirindria Eleth was a happy one. The moment Iska’s eyes fell on Vesarion, she dropped her pack in astonishment, and forgetting her former ambivalence towards him, flew to embrace him, astonished and delighted at his recovery. Eimer, less fortunate, got grabbed by his exasperated elder sister and was treated much more roughly. First he was comprehensively shaken, then in the voice of one whose patience has been tried beyond endurance, she informed him that he was a graceless n’er-do-well who had more lives than the proverbial cat. And finally, abandoning her superior pose, she hugged him so fiercely he had to gulp for air.
Only Gorm and Bethro remained on the periphery of the group, pointedly ignoring one another. Bethro, who liked to be the centre of attention, tried to break into the conversation, but Gorm was happy to merely gaze adoringly at Sareth from a distance.
Everyone was talking at once, asking questions, recounting anecdotes, but when Eimer managed to make his voice heard, he told the story of the recovery of the sword.
“They think we are still trapped in the city,” he concluded. “and will be searching the streets for us for quite a while before they realise they are wasting their time. At least it enabled us to get here unmolested.”
“We left two days ago,” added Iska, “so my guess is that just about now they are coming to the conclusion that we are no longer in the city and they will start to widen their search.”
Sareth sighed with relief. “Well at least they will have no idea where we have gone.”
But Iska’s next words banished her complacency.
“Unfortunately, that is not necessarily true. I have seen Mordrian hunt fugitives before. With him, it is almost a kind of sport and he keeps a pack of specially trained hounds for the purpose. He will be able to get some of my clothes from my room above the stables and that will give them the scent. So we have no time to waste. We must leave immediately and try to reach a place where the dogs cannot track us.”
Bethro, whose vivid imagination was already picturing a pack of slavering hounds snapping at his heels, said tremulously: “Surely they cannot follow us beyond the curtain? Surely once we are outside it, we will be safe?”
“Normally that would be true. But you will recall that we had concluded that my brother must have found a way of controlling the curtain, as he has to bring his army through it in order to attack Eskendria.”
“We got a glimpse of his army on our way here,” Eimer intervened, with unusual gravity, “and we also saw something that makes it imperative that we return to Eskendria as soon as possible. Iska had to bring us by a different route than the one you took, because we had to get Gorm out of sight. We entered these wooded hills some distance to the north of here and from their height we had a fine view over the plain of…..what did you say it was called, Iska?”
“The Plain of Irios.”
Eimer swung round to directly address Vesarion, his expression more earnest than his cousin had ever seen it.
“They are assembling a mighty army, Vesarion, more numerous that I had believed possible. Adamant is smaller than Eskendria, and so I had thought that whatever happened, we could at least raise more men than they. I had thought that the odds were bound to be in our favour, provided we could get the sword back. But this is not the case, for in fact, there are two armies assembling on the plain. One from Adamant, and another unlike anything I have ever seen before.”
Vesarion was staring intently at him, his brows drawn together. “What do you mean?” he demanded sharply.
“We saw an army of warriors dressed entirely in black. Iska said they were just like the figures present at the forging of the sword. They wear full-face metal visors under hooded tunics. Their steel breastplates and greaves are also black. A host of tents has sprung up on the plain in orderly rows beside the army of Adamant. From the height of the overlooking hills, we could see no traffic between the two camps, none of the usual activity one would expect between two allied armies, but I think it clear that their purpose is the same – to annihilate Eskendria.�
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“How many of these black warriors are we talking about?” Vesarion asked curtly.
“We estimated ten thousand,” Eimer replied. “Apart from the fact that they are all attired the same, there is a strange uniformity about them. They are all tall, about your height, and are all much the same powerful build.”
“Perhaps they are not men at all,” suggested Bethro.
“They are the shape and size of a man,” Eimer returned. “But although we watched for some time, none of us ever saw their faces. What lies beneath those steel masks, I do not know.”
Vesarion turned to the Turog, who had remained silent.
“Do you know, Gorm?”
He shook his head. “No. Gorm does not know what is behind mask. All dressed in black, means they belong to Destroyer. Not good. Not good at all.”
A faint smile crossed Vesarion’s feature. “I think, my friend, it will soon be proved that you have a talent for under-statement.”
His eyes sought Sareth’s and she read regret in them. “It seems that we must leave this beautiful place sooner than we expected.”
Their gaze held for a long moment before she nodded sadly in acceptance, and he turned to Iska.
“Do you know a place where the dogs cannot track us?”
“Yes, but before I tell you of it, there is something important that must be done first.”
She looked at Eimer and they exchanged a nod of agreement. The Prince knelt and unlaced something attached to one of the packs. He revealed an object, long in shape, wrapped tightly in a blanket. With something approaching reverence, he handed it to Iska. Every eye was riveted to her, for they knew what it was. Bethro found he was holding his breath in excitement.
Slowly, she opened the covering to reveal the sword, closely encased in its leather scabbard. Balancing it across both her outstretched palms, she held it out in offering to Vesarion.
“This belongs to you, Heir of Erren-dar,” she declared.
But her words provoked an unexpected reaction in Vesarion.
“No!” he said sharply.
Everyone stared at him in astonishment. Bethro was so startled that he tumbled into speech.
“Indeed it does,” he hurriedly insisted. “I was its keeper, its guardian, for a short while, but only you, as the grandson of Erren-dar, can claim ownership.”
Again, Vesarion stepped back, until the edge of the pool stopped him going any further.
“I have no right to it,” he said harshly.
The rest of the company, with the exception of Sareth, looked at one another in perplexity, unsure how to respond.
Vesarion spoke again. “Return it to Eskendria, Eimer, for it has a role to play there, but I cannot claim it as mine.”
The Prince, aware that some sort of crisis had been reached, asked one simple question. “Why?”
“Because I did not recover it. You did. You have more right to claim it than I do.”
“That is not the whole story, is it Vesarion?” the Prince asked quietly, remembering their past conversation. “I did not see your ordeal at the Traitor’s Pillar that day, but Iska did, and she described to me all that you underwent. Were it not for the fact that you resisted, and refused to tell Mordrian what he wanted to know, we would all be incarcerated in some dark dungeon awaiting execution by now, and the sword would be lost to Eskendria for ever.”
“You don’t know what you are saying, Eimer,” replied Vesarion, angrily. “Do you think me brave? Well, don’t, because it is a lie.”
Iska made to speak but he cut her short. “No, Iska. You might have witnessed what they did to me that day, but you could not see into my mind. You could not know what I was thinking, and I tell you now that….that I was afraid. More afraid than I have ever been in my life.”
The words came out as if they were wrenched from him. Once more, Iska made as if to speak, but suddenly she felt Sareth’s hand press her shoulder, restraining her.
“From the moment they captured me,” continued Vesarion in a tortured voice, “all during the time they were beating me, all during the time at the Traitor’s Pillar and while I was sitting in my cell waiting to die in the morning - I was afraid. And I, of all people, must know no fear. I am the Lord of Westrin, the most powerful barony in the Kingdom. I am the heir of Erren-dar, the greatest hero that Eskendria has ever known, a man of legendary courage – and yet, and yet, I knew fear. So, you see, I cannot take the sword, for to do so would be to live a lie. I cannot claim it because I am not worthy of it.”
Finally, Sareth released her grip on Iska’s shoulder and allowed her to speak.
“You are suffering under a misapprehension, Vesarion,” she said. “You have misunderstood the nature of courage. You think that bravery means having no fear, but you are wrong.”
Eimer stepped in. “Actually, it means being dreadfully afraid and yet facing that fear and doing what has to be done despite it. It is not lack of fear that is the mark of courage but refusing to give in to it. For without fear, Vesarion, there is no courage. Erren-dar fought the Great-turog that day and saved the Kingdom, but nowhere does the legend say that in doing so, he knew no fear. You condemn yourself in error, my friend.”
“They are right, Vesarion,” Sareth confirmed. “You faced your fears and conquered them. I was watching that day in the square, when you knew very well what they were going to do to you, and you looked Mordrian in the eye and defied him. I have never seen such steel in anyone before. You have earned the right to take the sword, not because you are the descendant of Erren-dar, but because of your courage that day.”
They were all standing in a semi-circle before Vesarion and the deep waters of the pool lay behind him, gently releasing little phantoms of steam into the still air. In the moment of silence that followed Sareth’s words, the sun found its way into the cavern and sent a fan of many slanting shafts of light into the water of the pool turning it turquoise blue. It also cast its light around the man standing motionless on its verge.
To the others, standing in the shadows, it seemed almost like a sign, for the light illuminated him like a descending blessing. Acting instinctively, Iska stepped towards him and going down on one knee before him, looked upwards into the sunlight and once more offered him the sword.
“Take it, Vesarion,” she whispered. “You saved me from my brother’s wrath. Never doubt yourself again.”
For a long moment he looked down at her in silence, struggling with something inside him. Then suddenly his brow began to clear, as if the inner battle had finally been won. Reverently, he reached down and took the scabbard in both hands and lifted it into the light.
As Iska stepped back, her eyes shining, his fingers closed around the plain, leather-bound hilt. How familiar it felt. How perfectly the shape of the hilt fitted in his hand.
And all at once, a feeling of intense joy swept through him and all his doubts were gone. Through every nerve, muscle and sinew it flooded, until he was suffused with it.
His hand tightened on the hilt, and in one fluid movement, he swept the sword from its scabbard. The blade gave a brilliant flash as it encountered the sunlight on its polished surface. He held it out before him, marvelling at its perfect balance, noting the chalice flowers incised below the hilt. This was the first time he had ever held the sword but somehow it felt as familiar as his own arm. He remembered the day in the Ivy Tower in Addania, when he had looked at its imprint on the velvet cushions and had almost felt it in his grasp, and now it was just as he had imagined it to be.
Smoothly, he swung the sword sideways, slicing it through the air, watched delightedly by his friends, every one of whom, even Gorm, was smiling by now.
He could feel its elegance, its manoeuvrability and the cutting power of its fine edge. It was as if only now he had at last come to realise, that all these years, his hand had been empty without it.
Chapter Thirty
The Lost Ones
Iska stood looking at the Morass of Engorin with a sense of
dismay. All during the course of their flight from Adamant, they had been straining every nerve to reach this place ahead of pursuit, and now that they had finally arrived, it looked hopeless. What lay before her was a tangled area of open water, sometimes shallow and dotted with drowned trees and tall reeds, at others, laced by deep channels, their course marked by water lilies. It was nothing less than a flooded wilderness, stretching as far as the eye could see.
She was only too aware that it had been her advice that had brought them here, to a place she had never been before but had deemed suitable on the basis of some old maps found in the library by Callis. To have trusted in them, in retrospect, seemed like folly, for they were over a thousand years old, dating from the time of the Old Kingdom, and things had obviously changed since then. What had been described merely as a marshy area on the map, was now a drowned land, stretching into infinity until it merged with an ephemeral mist that hovered on the edges of distant vision. In the grey light, it seemed a dismal place, but worse than that, it seemed to her to be impassable. The areas of shallow water were clearly interspersed by lakes, home only to waterfowl. Even the trees were inundated. Spindly willows stood up to their knees in water, or had given up the ghost altogether and collapsed into the flood. The only faint ray of hope was the occasional small island of dry ground, rising proud of the surrounding chaos, bearing woolly crowns of densely packed trees.
How they were to proceed, she knew not, but proceed they must, for her irate brother was right on their tail. In that respect, at least, her advice had proved accurate. Mordrian had, indeed, hunted them with dogs - and hunted them relentlessly. The Cavern of Sirindria Eleth, hidden and remote as it was, would have provided no sanctuary for them. Realising that speed was all that would save them, the company had left the cave within a hour of her warning. But she knew that two at least of their number were loath to go. While the others were loading their belongings onto the two horses, Sareth and Vesarion had drifted away and had stood together for a long time beside the blue waters of the pool. She was too far away to hear what passed between them, but she saw Sareth hang her head, as if in grief, and Vesarion reach out and touch her cheek with the backs of his fingers, in a gesture that was so unconsciously loving that it informed Iska, as nothing else could have, that they had come together at last. Nothing had been said. No announcement had been made. But as the company travelled across Adamant, hurrying in the darkness to reach the tear in the curtain, Iska noticed that they always walked in step with one another, and she knew, with joyful certainty, that all was well between them.
