by R. J. Grieve
Yet, unexpectedly, witnessing her friend’s happiness brought about a sense of isolation in Iska. Loneliness descended upon her, becoming more and more acute as she left the land of her birth behind her.
They had passed through the Curtain of Adamant shortly after sunrise and had begun to ascend the mountains once more, this time by the Pass of Ogron, when they had detected the sound they had all been dreading to hear – the hysterical yapping of hounds that have caught a scent. Looking back from their vantage-point, they had seen a swarm of dogs streaming across the countryside, followed by many men both mounted and on foot. All were heading with the directness of an arrow in flight, towards the old willow tree. When they reached the curtain, the dogs became uncertain, confused by a barrier they could not see, but after an initial halt, the cry went up again as the pursuit party found the gap in the tree. Those on foot were soon pushing the dogs through, one by one. A mounted man, his back straight, his stance commanding, had halted a little apart from the confusion and was looking upwards towards the mountains, shielding his eyes from the low beams of the climbing sun. Even from a distance, Iska knew with deadly certainty who it was. Mordrian had once told her that no one was permitted to defy him and get away with it, and Iska knew his pursuit of them would be merciless. If only they could stay ahead of the dogs long enough to traverse the pass, they had a chance. They would attempt to confuse their hunters by turning east, instead of taking the more direct southerly route towards Eskendria that she had followed on her outward journey. Once deep within the Morass of Engorin’s wild embrace, it was hoped that the water would cause the dogs to lose the scent. But that depended on them getting far enough into the wilderness to be out of sight. It mattered little if the dogs could not track them, if they were still in plain view to their pursuers. Several times in the high passes between the peaks, they had detected the faint echo of the tracking hounds, but with an heroic effort, especially on the part of Bethro, who found high altitudes a strain, they had kept their lead. Indeed, for the last few hours, they had heard nothing of the dogs and deduced that those who hunted them must have actually fallen further behind.
But now? Now it looked as if she had lead them into a trap.
Vesarion, who had happened to notice Iska standing in isolation, staring dismally at the water, crossed to her and stood beside her, staring out across the vapour-wreathed water, saying nothing.
It was Iska who finally broke the silence.
“I have led you all astray this time,” she said miserably. “Perhaps I have become arrogant in believing that my advice is infallible. What a fool I was to rely on those old maps, and plot a course of which I have no personal knowledge. What was once merely an area of boggy ground, has now become a huge expanse of flooded land, and I do not know how we are to cross it.”
“The map showed islands dotted across the swamp, did it not?” he asked
“Yes, but…”
“Then although the low-lying ones may now be under water, it is likely that the higher ones will still be there and it is on those that we must rely.”
She sighed. “I suppose we have no choice but to try to cross it?”
“None. We can’t go back and it’s too big to go around.”
“I’m sorry, Vesarion.”
“There is no need to be sorry, Iska, for there is nothing else we could have done.” He remained looking speculatively at her, before venturing: “I think you are in low spirits because it is beginning to sink in that you can never return to your home. In the rush to escape from Adamant ahead of Mordrian, you had no time to consider the effect of your actions, but now you are beginning to realise that you have paid a heavy price for helping us.”
She nodded, touched by his understanding. “I know that sometimes I was not very happy there, but it is all I have ever known. The thought that I will never see Callis again is….is…” Her voice tailed off in distress.
He looked at her with compassion. “I owe you my life, Iska, as do we all. We are not merely your friends, we are now your family. When we reach Eskendria, you will begin a new life – a happier one, I hope.”
She turned a tormented face to him. “But I am of the House of Parth! How can this be? I will not be accepted. I will be distrusted, blamed for the crimes of my clan!”
“You will not,” he said determinedly. “You will have my protection. Being lord of the greatest barony in the Kingdom has its advantages. Heaven help anyone who threatens you while you are under my care. I want you to know that you have a home at Ravenshold for as long as you want it.”
She looked up at him gratefully, but suddenly a little glimmer of mischief darted into her eyes. “You mean, with you and Sareth?”
“Ah!” he laughed, caught by surprise but making no attempt to deny it. “You know, do you? I suppose Sareth told you.”
“No, there was no need, for you betray yourself every time you look at her. I’m not blind you know!”
But at that moment, their words were cut short by an unwelcome sound carried on the still air – the baying of hounds.
They both froze, listening intently. The noise came and went. Sometimes faint snatches reached them, at others, the silence descended again, broken only by the piping of water birds far out on the marshes.
“They are still distant, I think,” concluded Vesarion softly, letting go of the breath he had been unconsciously holding, “but we must be out of sight by the time they arrive, and unfortunately progress through such a terrain will be slow. I have asked Gorm to cut some long poles from the willow trees, to test the depth of the water. If one of us suddenly stepped into deep water, burdened with a heavy pack, no matter how good a swimmer they are, they would stand no chance.”
“Em…I’m guessing this would not be a good time to tell you that I can’t swim.”
“People seem to get the urge to tell me that at inappropriate moments,” he grinned. “However, it scarcely matters, as swimming is not a viable alternative. We either wade, or we sink.”
As it turned out, Iska was not the only one worried by the inability to swim. Gorm had cut some willow rods and trimmed them neatly with his small axe, but he, too, was now standing on the last patch of dry land, dubiously surveying the water.
“Well, Gorm, old fellow?” said the Prince brightly. “Why so glum? You look like the cat has died.”
“Haven’t got a cat,” replied Gorm, ever literal.
“You don’t fancy the idea of a swim then?”
“Can’t swim. Deep water no good.”
“Don’t worry, the poles you cut will help us avoid it. I know you’re a bit on the short side for this performance, but never fear, I won’t let you drown.”
The Turog’s response to this assurance was to look sceptical and move a bit closer to Sareth.
It was soon seen that his doubts about the terrain were fully justified, for even the tallest member of the group found the going hard. In fact, only the irrepressible Prince appeared undaunted.
“This is like old times, isn’t it Sareth?” he declared cheerily, wading through a patch of sedge grasses, up to his knees in greenish water. “Thanks to Terebar, we spent quite a lot of our misbegotten youth in the moat. He had it down to a fine art how to judge the exact spot where he could ditch us directly into the water. I suspect that Vesarion had trained him to do it.”
He managed to extract a laugh from her. “I remember. I also remember having to fish you out of the river the day Enrick decided to give you a hiding, and in your haste to get away, you fell off the bridge.”
Vesarion rolled his eyes at Iska. “You have no idea what a handful those two used to be.”
But the Prince corrected him. “Sareth is still a handful. If you ask me, you have the courage of a lion, Vesarion – and don’t look so surprised. It’s perfectly obvious, even to an idiot like me, that you two have finally come to your senses.”
Vesarion looked at Sareth, struggling along behind him and raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
; “Have you any idea what he’s talking about?”
She shook her head, biting back a smile. “No idea at all. I think his dissolute life is taking its toll on his brain.”
“I have an announcement to make,” declared Bethro, who, being some considerable distance in the rear, had not heard their conversation. “I am being bitten!”
“So am I,” replied Vesarion, slapping his hand irritably against the back of his neck. “This place is alive with midges.”
“But they itch!” wailed Bethro, as if he expected someone to do something about it.
“Try reasoning with them,” suggested Eimer flippantly. “Or you could stand down-wind of Gorm, then they certainly won’t touch you.”
The Turog, always a little unpredictable in what he found funny, gave a bark of laughter at that.
Unfortunately, their light-heartedness lasted but a moment. Barely had their laughter died away, than the sound of the pursuing dogs could be heard once more, this time, closer than ever.
They had been heading for a small, wooded island some distance out in the marshlands, that loomed a little indistinctly through the nacreous veils of mist, but the going was slower than they had anticipated. Sometimes they were wading through water that was only ankle deep, but then, suddenly, Vesarion’s searching rod would plunge into deeper water and they would find themselves up to their thighs – or in Gorm’s case, his waist. Moreover, the water was choked with vegetation. Dense swathes of water lilies, their glossy, plate-like leaves curling up at the edges to reveal russet undersides, jostled for space in the deeper channels. Tall stands of heavy-headed bulrushes blocked their way and stately golden reeds rustled together like conspiring courtiers, even though the air was still. Each step had to be carefully tested with the willow poles. Each inch of the treacherous ground hidden below the water, had to be probed for depth and solidity. Without any order being given, the company had drifted into single file in their usual travelling order, with Vesarion out in front, divining their path, and Gorm bringing up the rear. Twice Vesarion had to abandon a route he was attempting because the water was getting too deep, and in some despair, he began to wonder if they would ever reach the island, never mind negotiate the entire swamp. Every so often, he would raise his eyes from his task, scanning the seemingly endless expanses of the morass, to where its edges blended seamlessly into the encircling mist. He recalled that Iska’s copy of the old map showed islands of varying sizes dotted across the region. It had been his intention to pass from island to island, but a map already shown to be inaccurate in one respect, could be inaccurate in others, and he was by no means as sanguine about their chances as he had led her to believe.
Now, once more, the hounds of Prince Mordrian had picked up their trail, and just when speed was most needed, their frustratingly slow progress through the water left them utterly exposed. One glance at the leaden sky above, informed him that night was too far away to be of any help, neither was the mist dense enough to offer succour, so grimly he fought on.
The frantic yapping grew closer and he knew that their pursuers would soon be in sight, yet he could not increase the pace, as a plunge into deep water would have spelt disaster. The island had begun to appear more solid as they drew closer, yet it was still tantalisingly out of reach. Looking behind him at the line of struggling companions, he came to a decision.
“We are not going to make it to the island in time,” he called to them. “They will be upon us at any moment. Our only chance is to get to that tall clump of reeds to our left and hope that they are dense enough to hide us from unfriendly eyes. With any luck, the dogs will be rendered fairly useless by all this water. At least we have the advantage of being a good distance out from the shore.”
But as they turned in the direction of the reeds, the water got suddenly deeper, moreover, a dead tree had fallen in the water directly in their path, its half-hidden branches forming a tangled trap in which it would have been all too easy to have become ensnared.
Gorm was by now up to his chest in water and despite valiant efforts, was making little headway. Eimer and Bethro, seeing his difficulties, were forced to catch him under each arm and drag him forwards.
All the while the ululation of the dogs grew ever louder.
Vesarion, looking back periodically over his shoulder towards the shore, negotiated a passage through the tangled maze of the drowned tree and held out his rod to guide the others. Sareth and Iska, following his lead, were soon amongst the concealment of the reeds, but Gorm, ruthlessly towed by his rescuers past the fallen tree, suddenly gave a cry and disappeared under the water. At the same instant, over the rim of the low hills that bounded the swamp, appeared a stream of hounds, streaking down the hillside, closely followed by many men on foot, running to keep up with them. Vesarion noted with a certain grim satisfaction that, like them, Prince Modrian had been forced to abandon his horses at the curtain. Clearly the small gap in the old willow tree had done them a favour.
With a gasp, Gorm surfaced. “Pack caught!” he spluttered.
Eimer, aware of their fate closing fast upon them, snapped: “Get into hiding, Bethro. I’ll deal with it,” and began to struggle to free Gorm, his hands tugging desperately at something under the water.
Vesarion, who had been keeping a close eye on their hunters, now only a short distance from the edge of the marsh, said sharply: “Leave it, Eimer. Get amongst the reeds – quickly! Gorm, keep your head down amongst the branches of the tree and don’t make a sound.”
The two men disappeared into the reeds, leaving Gorm clinging to the tree, his head barely above water.
Crouched amongst the golden reeds, they listened as the high-pitched yapping grew in volume and intensity as the dogs became ever more certain of the scent. Their handlers were by now straining to keep up with them, as they tore down the last stretch of hillside to the water’s edge. But when they arrived at the brink, the steady sound of pursuit collapsed into chaos, as the dogs began to mill about in confusion, running this way and that along the bank, suddenly unsure of the direction. Sareth, peering between the reeds, saw a tall, dark figure catch up with the disordered scene and start issuing instructions. She glanced enquiringly at Iska and received a small nod of confirmation. Prince Mordrian, it appeared, was tenacious in the extreme. He began dividing those under his command into smaller groups, two of which he sent in both directions along the bank and the others, more dangerously, into the swamp. Within a few paces, the dogs were out of their depth and had to be sent back, but driven on by their Prince, the men began to fan out and advance into the morass. Several came to grief by falling into deep water, for they had not taken the precaution of cutting poles as Vesarion had done. The rest, learning their lesson, began to use their swords to test the depth and slowly but inexorably, they drew closer. As they approached, Gorm sank under the water, until only his nostrils were above the surface. The others shrank down even further into the reeds. The Prince was now so close to their hiding place that Vesarion could see the well-remembered cruelty and arrogance on his face. The memory of their last meeting burned in his mind. He saw once more, the gloating expression of satisfaction on his tormentor’s face, as Ursor delivered blow after brutal blow. He relived once more the sense of helplessness of having his hands bound behind his back. Vesarion was not a man accustomed to feeling helpless, and despite himself, he began to burn with anger. A hard knot of rage was tightening in the pit of his stomach. He was not by nature a vindictive man, but the desire for revenge had taken hold of him as it never had before in his life. Through the golden curtain of the reeds, he watched the man who had inflicted such suffering upon him and brought him close to death, and his anger grew by the moment. Without realising what he did, his hand sought the hilt of his sword and tightened around it. He could almost see those cold amber eyes that had mocked his pain. Without even being aware of what he was doing, he slowly began to draw the sword of Erren-dar from its housing.
The slight scrape of steel alerted Sareth
. She caught the look of cold vengeance upon his face, so intense that it was almost frightening. He did not notice her, for every fibre of his being was concentrated upon his enemy, as smoothly he continued to slide the sword free of its scabbard. Sareth knew she must act swiftly or disaster would descend upon them all. She quickly reached across and placed her hand warningly over the hard fist closed around the hilt. His head swung sharply towards her, as if he was only just aware of her presence. Their eyes met, and although daunted by the anger she saw in them, she gave a tiny but emphatic shake of her head. She held that searing gaze for what seemed an eternity. For a moment she thought he was going to shake her off, but slowly she saw the ire begin to die from his eyes, as good sense reasserted itself. Reluctantly, he slid the sword home again. But as his glance bored through the reeds towards his enemy, Vesarion silently vowed that some day they would meet again, when the odds were not weighted in the Prince’s favour.
However, they were not rid of Prince Mordrian yet, for after halting to survey his surroundings, he appeared to fasten his attention on the clump of reeds. He turned towards them, and with several of his men, began to wade in their direction. As they drew close to the sunken tree behind which Gorm was practically drowning himself in an effort not to be seen, the small Turog took a deep breath and sank noiselessly beneath the surface. Staring upwards through the water, he could see the wavery outline of the men busily stabbing the water with their swords. One came within a whisker of him but he held his nerve and remained submerged. They were by now past the tree and only a few paces from the reeds. Those of the fugitives who were armed, had their hands on the hilts of their swords, determined to sell themselves dearly, when suddenly Mordrian said:
