by R. J. Grieve
“The water is getting too deep here. Try in that direction.”
Eimer pursed his lips and let out a silent whistle of relief. Cautiously, like a toad emerging from hibernation, Gorm quietly surfaced again.
For three nerve-wracking hours, the search continued. Several times the searchers came close but were, at the last moment, deflected by the deeper waters. At last, as the overcast afternoon began to wane, the men were recalled to the shore and set off along the bank in an easterly direction.
When they had gone, the company forsook their hiding place, tired and cramped from crouching for so long, and went to Gorm’s rescue. When his pack was freed from the branches, he surfaced, soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably.
“D-d-don’t l-like s-swamps,” he stammered.
“Come on,” said Eimer. “We must try to make it to the island and get you onto dry land before nightfall.”
“I’m afraid we can’t risk lighting a fire to dry you out,” Vesarion said apologetically.
“D-don’t care. Just w-want out of w-water.”
Never had solid ground seemed so welcome. Six weary and soaking fugitives dragged themselves out of the cold water onto the reassuring firmness of the little island. Its slightly rising dome was crowned with tall trees of a very different nature to the spindly willows trying to survive in the swamp. They were mostly beeches and oaks of such impressive height that they were clearly of a great age. Their dense canopy almost met overhead, rendering the fading light of approaching evening even dimmer.
Yet to Sareth, the little island had a strange atmosphere. There was something secretive about it that made her feel like an intruder. Perhaps it was the silence, unbroken even by the call of a bird. Perhaps it was the stillness, for not a leaf trembled. It was hard to define, but something seemed almost a little eerie. She appeared to be the only one aware of it, for the others were busy wringing the water out of their clothes and shedding their packs onto the ground. Leaving the shore, Sareth, drawn by curiosity, ventured further into the trees. The shadows lay deep and silent. The trees almost seemed as if they were waiting for something. Unavailingly, she told herself she was being ridiculous, but the feeling would not leave her. After a moment, she turned to face back the way she had come, and discovered that her companions were no longer in sight. Although she had only gone a short distance, the trees had closed around her and nothing could be seen of them. In an attempt to get her bearings, she took a few paces backwards and without warning collided with something solid. She spun round, to discover herself staring into a horrible face, twisted with malice. She gave a cry of alarm, recoiled violently, caught her heel and fell on her back amongst the dead leaves with such force it knocked the breath out of her. Desperately she groped for her sword, only for her hand to freeze on the hilt. The face was not pursuing her, and for a very good reason - it was not formed of living flesh, but of wood. A life-sized figure was carved into the trunk of a tree in raised relief. Scrambling to her feet, she realised that she had backed into a circle of ancient oak trees, each carved with a different figure. They writhed and twisted against the trees, some with bared teeth, others with bulging eyes, but all exuding the same air of menace.
At that moment, Vesarion came crashing through the undergrowth into the clearing, closely followed by Eimer, both with their swords drawn.
“What is it?” he asked her urgently. “Are you all right? We heard your cry. What’s wrong?”
Sareth began to look a shade sheepish. “ Em….I’m beginning to feel a bit of a fool. I backed into one of those wooden figures, and in the poor light, thought it was real, and..er..screeched a bit.”
“She used to do the same thing every time she saw a spider,” said her brother helpfully.
Vesarion was grinning. “Never mind. Just as long as you’re all right.”
When Bethro and Iska arrived, they began to inspect the figures in fascination.
“I can see how they scared you,” said Iska. “They are utterly frightful. How could someone carve mere wood into such demonic shapes? I wonder what their purpose is?”
“Ceremonial, I would imagine,” declared Bethro, who had no idea, but didn’t like to be without an opinion. “They appear to be very ancient.”
But Eimer contradicted him. “Bethro, they can’t be very ancient, because they are carved into trees that are still growing.”
“Maybe they are magic,” suggested Gorm, who was sitting down in the middle of the clearing emptying water out of his boots.
Eimer, remembering his encounter with the wooden head in Sorne, looked at them with wary respect.
“I don’t care what they’re for,” announced Sareth roundly. “I’m not sleeping in this glade tonight. They are enough to give one nightmares.”
“Em…..” began Iska.
“I wonder who carved them?” Vesarion asked.
“Em…..” tried Iska again
“Well, whoever they are, I don’t want to meet them,” said Eimer. “The Destroyer himself could not have produced something that looked more evil.”
Iska finally made her voice heard. “Er…I don’t think that your wish is going to be granted, Eimer,” said she, tensely. “Look!”
A tall young man had emerged from the trees at the edge of the clearing as silently as a ghost. His dark hair was long, lying loose on his shoulders. He wore leather trousers bound below the knee with criss-crossing strips of hide, and over his dark green shirt, he wore a short cape of some soft grey fur. More interestingly, he carried in his hands a longbow, with an arrow held casually at the notch. Eimer and Vesarion, who had not sheathed their swords, instantly raised them again, unsure whether they were confronted with friend or foe.
For a tense moment no one moved or spoke. The young man seemed unperturbed by their weapons. He remained staring at them inscrutably with his dark eyes.
Then, as quietly as dew falling on a summer’s evening, dozens more men, armed exactly like him, emerged from the trees in a circle around them. The companions backed together into the middle of the clearing. In a moment the glade was bristling with arrows, all targeted upon them. Vesarion knew their swords would avail them nothing but, nevertheless, stood his ground.
Still, no one spoke. The silence was broken only by the ominous creak of tensioned bowstrings. Vesarion’s eyes came to rest on an older man who, from his bearing and the magnificence of his fur cape, seemed to be the leader.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The older man stared stonily at him for a moment, then leaning towards the man standing by his side, said in the Old Language: “What did he say?”
Surprised, Vesarion deftly switched to the same language and repeated his question. “I asked who you are?”
The man looked at him levelly. “Ei’ath Perith-arn,” he replied.
“What does that mean?” whispered Eimer to Bethro, for the first time regretting his refusal to study.
“He said - ‘We are the Lost Ones’.”
The man’s attention never wavered from Vesarion. “You have trespassed onto our lands and have brought great evil with you, and for that you must die.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Perith-arn
“It is our law that strangers must be brought before the Khaldor.…”
“Patriarch, or wise one,” translated Bethro in an aside to Eimer.
“…..who will decide their fate, whether they are worthy to live, or must die. But in your case, your fate has already been decided, for you have committed the crime of bringing into our lands that which we most abhor.”
He fixed his attention on Gorm, who had been facing the bowmen aggressively, nailed boots set apart, short sword in his hand, yellow eyes watchful.
The man continued, undaunted by the baleful stare he was receiving.
“You have brought this creature, a Turog, spawn of the Destroyer, into our realm and for that, you have forfeited your lives.”
As he finished speaking, every bow turned in the
direction of Gorm. Vesarion, sword raised, stepped in front of the Turog, shielding him.
Their captor was unimpressed. “If you wish, stranger, you may be the first to die.”
Unexpectedly, it was Gorm who replied. He emerged from behind Vesarion and said in his usual gruff manner: “Vesarion brave man. Not die for Gorm.” Carefully, he laid his sword and axe down on the carpet of dead leaves and looked steadily upwards with his sulphurous eyes.
“Let friends go,” said he, revealing an unexpected understanding of what was going on.
For the first time the man showed surprise. “Friends?” he repeated incredulously. “The Turog have no friends amongst the Children of Light, for your master, the Dark Prince, set enmity between them for all eternity. If you have found friends amongst human kind, then they, too, must be his servants.”
“I once thought as you do,” intervened Vesarion. “I once believed that the Turog were capable by their very nature of nothing but cruelty and wickedness, but I have been forced by experience to make one exception. This Turog has proved himself loyal and true, indeed, he has even risked himself to save my life. Not very long ago, if someone had told me that I would trust a Turog with my life, I would have thought that they had taken leave of their senses, but nonetheless he is now a member of our company and without him our mission would not have succeeded.”
“What mission?”
“I will explain that to your Khaldor.”
The man stood weighing him up. “What language were you speaking earlier?”
“We call it the modern tongue. It derived originally from the language of the Old Kingdom but over the course of the millennia it has changed much.”
“You are not of Parth?”
“No. We are from Eskendria,” replied Vesarion, deeming it not the time to go into Iska’s ancestry.
“I know nothing of this Eskendria of which you speak. What I do know is that you are being hunted by Prince Mordrian of Parth. The Prince has lost your trail for the moment, but I want to know why is he so desperately pursuing you?”
“Once again, I will give a full explanation of that to your Khaldor.”
For the first time, the man seemed a little amused. “You seem very determined to last the night, stranger.”
“Would you not be? However, it is no trick. What I have to tell your patriarch is of great importance to your people, as well as mine.”
Once again the man silently considered him, the matter clearly finely balanced in his mind. Alas, he decided to err on the side of caution.
“You may very well be lying,” he declared sceptically. “I will not risk being deceived by a servant of the enemy. I think it safer for my people if I kill you.”
Vesarion, wishing fervently that he had a shield, raised his sword still further until the tip was pointing directly at the man who thus condemned him.
“We are no servants of the enemy,” he said in a steely voice. “But I can promise you, that I will bring you down before the first arrow is loosed.”
However, his adversary’s attention was no longer upon him. Eyes widening in wonderment, it had fastened on the blade of the sword pointed threateningly at him. The last of the fading light, finding a chink between the encircling trees, had shone on the polished blade, illuminating with startling clarity, the chalice flowers engraved upon it.”
“Your sword bears the sacred symbol,” he breathed. “No follower of the dark arts would carry such a thing.”
“I have already told you that we do not serve the Destroyer. You may know nothing of Eskendria, but in that Kingdom, we adhere to the Book of Light.”
Gorm, over whose head all this talk had washed unheeded, had with all his usual tenacity, not lost sight of the important issue.
“Not kill friends,” he interrupted stubbornly.
The man suddenly came to a decision. “That is for the Khaldor to decide,” he sharply replied. “I fear this is a matter beyond my wisdom.” He turned to Vesarion, still facing him defiantly. “Lower your sword, Eskendrian. You will be taken to the patriarch tomorrow and he will decide your fate. I should warn you, that he has great acuity, and if you lie to him, he will know it. Deceit is not a veil behind which you can hide and I suggest you do not try to employ it. We are a hunting party and are some distance from our home, as we have strayed a little closer to the margins than is usual with us. This island is unoccupied except for the warning figures that so startled the young woman.”
“What do they warn against?” asked Sareth.
“I should have thought that was obvious. They warn intruders that they enter our lands at their peril. I am Teneth, leader of the third tribe. If you surrender your weapons now, you have my word that you will be taken unharmed to the principal island to present your case. Until the Khaldor makes his judgment, you are our prisoners.”
Reading doubt in Vesarion’s eyes, he added dryly: “The choice is a simple one. You either submit, or die where you stand.”
For a tense moment, Vesarion did not react, aware that his companions all had their eyes riveted to him, waiting to take their lead from his response. Then slowly, acknowledging that for all his bravado, he had little choice, he nodded agreement, and they all lowered their swords to the ground.
At the signal, the bowmen moved in upon them and stripped them of their weapons and packs. A howl of anguish went up from Gorm, as his pouch of treasures was taken from him.
“No! No! Not take Gorm’s treasures!”
Rendered suspicious by the commotion he was making, Teneth emptied the bag onto the ground and was almost ludicrously disappointed by the motley selection of bits and bobs. Only one thing caught his interest. It was a beautiful little silver box edged with turquoises.
Vesarion cast a fulminating glance at the distraught Turog, as much annoyed by the fact that he hadn’t even realised that the box was missing, as by Gorm’s inability to resist it.
“That’s mine,” he said curtly.
Teneth examined it admiringly. “What does the engraving on the lid say?”
“It says ‘To Vesarion from Meldorin – may it prove useful’. Meldorin is our king.”
Teneth closed the lid respectfully. “It appears, Vesarion of Eskendria, that your king holds you in high regard.”
If Teneth appeared to be thawing a little in his attitude to Vesarion, the same could not be said of poor Gorm.
Their captors were treating him roughly. His arms had been pinned behind his back, his wrists tightly bound, and a sack was pulled over his head.
Sareth tried to protest, but was cut short.
“Be thankful that you are not in a similar state. Our people are few in number and survive by secrecy. It would therefore not be wise to allow our enemy to gain intelligence of our camping sites or villages.
So while his companions walked free, surrounded by an armed escort, Gorm stumbled along, pulled by a rope, blinded by the hood and cursing in his own strange language as he tripped over roots.
Their camp was on the far side of the island and they reached it just as darkness fell. The cloudy skies had cleared unnoticed and the first few delicate stars began to pierce the firmament. Although there was no moon, the surrounding waters glimmered, reflecting back the starlight, so that they were able to make out that the encampment consisted of several beehive-shaped structures made of bent willow wands, covered neatly in sewn skins. Gorm was not privileged to enter one of these shelters, but was instead, stuffed into a small wooden cage. The others were directed into the largest shelter and their possessions, except for their weapons, were restored to them. However, security was not relaxed. Eimer, attempting to go outside, was unceremoniously shoved back again. They all looked at one another blankly, as if unsure what to do next.
Bethro spoke in a low voice, for fear of provoking the guards. “You are going to have to make a very persuasive case tomorrow, Vesarion,” he cautioned. “When you appear before the Khaldor, you will be pleading for our lives, and from the level of hostility dire
cted against us, I am far from hopeful. If it were not for the rodent, our chances would have been better.”
However, Vesarion rounded on him angrily and in a fierce undertone, said: “Let me remind you, Bethro, that the rodent offered to give his life in exchange for our freedom.”
Unassuaged guilt made Bethro over-sensitive to Vesarion’s displeasure, and so abashed was he, that when food was thrust through the door flap, he uncharacteristically ate little and said less.
That night, Vesarion and Sareth lay close beside one another in the smothering darkness, listening to the steady breathing of their companions, but they, too, said little. Vesarion knew Sareth had become fond of the little Turog and was worried for him, but there was little he could say to comfort her. Even though he had been irritated with Bethro, he knew in his heart that the tactless librarian was right. He guessed that over the years these secretive people had been hunted and harried by the Turog, and now their hatred for them was such that even if he could persuade the Khaldor to let his human captives live, the chances of obtaining the same privilege for Gorm were slim. Vainly he sought in his mind for a way to save the Turog, but tiredness curtailed his thoughts. He was just in the middle of rehearsing in his head a long and strangely tangled speech, when he fell asleep.
The morning found the Morass of Engorin totally transformed. The captives were allowed out of their shelter just as the new sun was climbing above the horizon. The pale sky was blushing and the sun cast long golden beams horizontally across the waters, turning the distant veils of mist pearlescent, dusted here and there with shades of pink and mauve. Several long, flat-bottomed boats were moored by a wooden landing stage that was so cleverly concealed amongst the reeds that it was almost undetectable. With practiced speed, the shelters were taken down and all their possessions were stowed neatly on the boats, until every sign of human presence on the island had gone. Gorm, who had survived the night in some discomfort, was once more hooded, trussed up like a chicken and deposited with evident distaste on the floor of one of the boats. The others were split up between several boats, with brother and sister in one, and Vesarion and Iska in another. Bethro, never exactly sure-footed, nearly overset one of the fragile craft and was so comprehensively sworn at, that his knowledge of the Old Language expanded considerably. The boats were propelled by a single long oar at the back, operated by a standing oarsman. It also, should the need arise, doubled as a punt. Soon they were gliding smoothly along through the patches of reeds, ever deeper into the swamp.
