by R. J. Grieve
Bethro asked him what the Perith-arn hunted, for he had been eyeing enviously the rich furs that were much in evidence.
“Beaver, mostly,” was the reply. “But also waterbuck.”
“I suppose you catch many otters.”
But the young man looked aghast. “No! Most certainly not! Otters are the guardians of the waterways, they must never be harmed. Such a thing is unthinkable.”
Thrown a little out of his stride, Bethro whispered to Iska: “A primitive, superstitious people, it seems.”
Despite their fate hanging in the balance, Eimer’s ability to live in the moment was infectious, and they enjoyed their afternoon of hawking and fishing. As the quiet shadows of evening began to fall, they arrived back at the landing stage where many of the slender boats were still tied up.
Eimer, presuming on his new-found friendship, remarked jauntily: “One of those would certainly assist us on our journey. Much better than wading through reeds or falling into holes.”
“This boat belongs to me,” Demeron said, indicating one of the smaller ones. “Should the Khaldor decide in your favour, I might be persuaded to part with it, but what could you offer me in exchange?”
Taken aback, Sareth said: “We have some money. I don’t know if it would be enough.”
“Coins are of no use to me,” replied Demeron disdainfully. “We do not use them here. Instead we barter one thing for another.”
“What do we have that you could possibly want?” Eimer asked.
The young man’s eyes came to rest on Iska. “Her,” he said bluntly.
“What did he say?” asked Eimer, as Bethro’s translating skills had been shocked into silence.
Vesarion’s face grew stern. “We do not barter people,” he said severely.
“Neither do we. But the circumstances are exceptional.”
“What does he want?” again asked Eimer, tugging urgently at Bethro’s sleeve. When he got a translation, his reaction was unexpected. He caught a startled Iska by the waist, pulled her smartly to his side, and casting a challenging look at Demeron, said curtly: “She’s with me.”
The response was not exactly as expected. Demeron threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Never did I see a fish rise more readily to the fly!” he chuckled, wiping his eyes.
Vesarion’s stern expression relaxed and he began to grin.
“What did he say?” asked Eimer of his sister.
“He said you are an idiot,” she paraphrased, her shoulders shaking.
“Besides,” continued Demeron, casting a critical eye over Iska, “ many of the girls of the three tribes are prettier than she is.”
Iska, struggling to free herself of Eimer’s hold, swelled with indignation. “Did he just say that I’m not pretty?” she asked him rhetorically.
“Why are you asking me? I have no idea what he said.”
“And what do you mean by announcing in that patronising way – she’s with me?”
“Well, I thought…..”
“But you don’t think, Eimer, that’s the problem.”
Nettled, Eimer shot back. “I’m not taking that from a chit like you.”
“I’m not the one who has just been made to look a fool!”
“Oh-oh,” said Sareth rolling her eyes comically. “Let us depart and leave them to enjoy a good row in peace.”
As they followed Demeron up the path towards the village, the sound of raised voices followed them the whole way.
One of the quaint beehive shelters had been erected for them on the edge of the village and they retired to it that night, aware that they were still discreetly under guard. Sareth had attempted to see Gorm but had been refused, and now lay awake in the darkness beside Vesarion that night, concerned that the little Turog might be hungry or in pain. She wondered if Vesarion had managed to convince the Khaldor to let them live, or whether the decision in the morning would go against them. Everything hinged on that decision. Not only their own lives, but the lives of so many now living at home within the boundaries of Eskendria, whose safety was but an illusion. Nearly three months had passed since they had crossed the Harnor, and their disappearance must seem like a mystery to those they had left behind. She thought of her grandmother and all the wise advice she had given. She recalled how Queen Triana had almost forced her to go with Vesarion, on what had seemed at the time like a rather dull visit to Sorne. Now, if she returned to Eskendria, everything would be different. Her future was secure. Enrick could harm her no more, for she would have a home far away from him in the fortress of Ravenshold, protected by the man she loved.
A loud snort from Bethro unromantically interrupted her thoughts. As she lay contemplating the idea of getting up to turn him on his side, she drifted off to sleep.
But the dream came again to her that night. Once more, she saw herself kneeling on the trodden grass of a battlefield and Vesarion lay as still as death in her arms. Once more, she saw that he was dressed for battle, in full armour except for his helmet. The sword of Erren-dar rested in his hand and beside him lay his shield, much dented, bearing the crest of Westrin. His face was utterly drained of colour, grey with the approach of death, and on the edge of his armour, there formed one huge ruby drop after another, each falling to join the pool of blood on the ground.
With a gasp of sheer terror, she awoke, the dream more real to her than her present surroundings.
She felt Vesarion’s hand close upon her arm in the darkness.
“What is it?” he whispered. “You are trembling. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she whispered back. “It was just a bad dream, that’s all.”
“What was it?”
But she refused to tell him. “It was just a stupid dream. It’s not worth repeating.”
He did not press her, but he knew that something had seriously frightened her, for her trembling did not cease. Suddenly she flung her arms around him and burying her face against his neck, whispered with quiet desperation: “Don’t leave me Vesarion. Please don’t ever leave me.”
He felt her tears against his skin and tightened his arms around her.
“What’s all this about?” he asked gently.
“Just promise me you will never leave me,” she wept softly.
“Of course I promise. You should not need to ask - unless,” he added, with the idea of lightening her mood, “that was an obscure way of proposing to me.”
He managed to elicit a watery chuckle in response, and encouraged, he continued smoothly: “You see, it has just occurred to me that I have not formally asked you again. I just sort of took it as implied.”
“Implied!”
“Sssh! You’ll wake the others.”
“Typical man!,” she murmured in mock dudgeon. “Implied, indeed!”
“Well then, Princess Sareth of Eskendria, I can’t exactly go down on one knee at the moment, but would you consider signing a binding contract with your humble servant here?”
“I’ll think about it.”
He grinned in the darkness. “Well don’t think too long because I’m much in demand, you know. Besides, the only reason I ask, is that I’ve been searching all my life for a woman tall enough to kiss without actually breaking my neck.”
To his delight, she responded with a smothered laugh, but deep in his heart he was still troubled, for he knew that his promise might only last as far as the morning.
Chapter Thirty-two
The Fate of Two Nations
The awaited decision did not come in the morning as anticipated. Their guards escorted them to the open area that lay before the council hall to receive the verdict, just as a sleepy sun began to heave itself above the horizon. But nothing happened. After several hours had passed, during which not only the captives, but also their guards, ended up walking in restless circles, the door finally opened to reveal the usher, staff in hand. The supplicants tensed, for he looked grave. Bethro’s ruddy cheeks noticeably paled.
“There has been a delay, Lord
of Westrin,” the usher said sombrely. “A meeting of the elders was convened yesterday evening and they have been deep in discussion about your fate throughout the night. It might interest you to know that the elders are evenly divided in their advice to the Khaldor. Half of them wish to spare you, the others consider you a risk to our people and are of the opinion that you and your companions must die. I fear you may have some time to wait before the result is known.”
“Does the Khaldor wish me to speak to the elders?”
“No. You have presented your case. There is no more you can do. Our law may seem severe to you, but there have been times in our past when our survival has hung by a thread. We are not numerous enough to withstand an attack from a great kingdom such as Adamant. We have only been able to keep the Turog at bay by using our superior knowledge of these marshes to pick them off one by one. Secrecy, therefore, is our surest weapon.”
“I wish that I could convince your elders that we mean the Perith-arn no harm. Indeed, we would see you as our allies in our fight against the Destroyer.”
“Great battles are not for us, stranger, but I understand your desire to warn your king of this impending peril. I wish you well, but the decision does not lie with me.”
Sareth, who had been listening, asked apprehensively: “If the decision goes against us, how will….I mean, in what way will….?”
The usher anticipated the unfinished question. “Your throats will be slit. Every man amongst us is a skilled huntsman. I assure you, you will feel nothing.”
In response to this comforting assurance, Bethro turned even paler and abruptly sat down and put his head between his knees.
“I could give you more cause for hope, were it not for the Turog,” continued the usher, looking at the anxious faces around him.
When he had returned to the hall, Vesarion and Sareth, sat down beside one another on a wooden bench. Without a word being spoken, their hands met and clasped tightly together.
After the torment of another hour of waiting, at last the usher re-emerged and signalled them to enter the hall.
The same diffused sunlight filtered down through the thatch above. The same brazier gently glowed, sending up a thin spiral of blue smoke. But some things had changed. The table had been moved to one side and all its chairs, now occupied by the elders, stood in a semi-circle facing the captives. The Khaldor sat in his great chair in the midst of his advisors, and as they approached, he rose to his feet and drew his fur cloak more closely around his shoulders. Vesarion noticed that the sword of Erren-dar was propped against his chair, and he looked at it longingly.
“Strangers,” began the Khaldor formally, “long have I and my brother elders debated your fate. Not lightly do my people take a life, especially those of our own kind. We acknowledge that you are of the Children of Light, descended, as we are, from the peoples of the Golden Kingdom. Yet the Perith-arn survive only by secrecy and thus every outsider who knows of our existence, represents a threat. This we must balance against all that you, Vesarion of Westrin, have told us. Our neighbours in the Kingdom of Adamant know nothing of us, but we keep a close watch on them, and in recent months they have begun to emerge in small numbers from behind their protective screen. This, and the presence of Prince Mordrian in our lands, lends credence to all you have told me. If the Prince, acting as envoy of the Destroyer, crosses this land to make war on Eskendria and succeeds in bringing down the last surviving remnant of the Old Kingdom, then I fear that the Perith-arn will not survive. Our isolation will be at an end. The Prince, in his greed for power, will not spare the three tribes from subjection to his will. It has therefore been decided that our survival is allied to the survival of Eskendria. It is my judgment that you, Lord of Westrin, and your companions, be released unharmed. Moreover, you will be provided with the means to speed your mission to give warning to your country.”
Sareth released a pent-up gasp of relief and Iska suddenly felt her knees go wobbly. Eimer, more forthright, gave a whoop of delight and clapped his long-suffering translator on the back. But just as Vesarion was in the act of stepping forward to thank the elders, the Khaldor held up his hand to restrain him.
“However,” he said solemnly, “there is another matter to be decided – the fate of the Turog. You have made a case for its life to be spared and although you were eloquent, we remain unconvinced. This creature was created by the Destroyer to be used as his tool in eradicating humanity. It therefore cannot be trusted with the secret of the Perith-arn and must be executed.”
“No!” cried Sareth. “No! Please don’t do this! He is not like other Turog. He has shown himself utterly devoted to us. He has risked himself again and again to help us – even fighting his own kind to do so. Please, I beg you, do not do this.”
The Khaldor considered her, not unkindly. “I am no longer young, daughter of Eskendria. I have fought the Turog on many occasions and in all that time I have seen nothing in them but cruelty and the desire to slay mankind. What you say makes no sense to me, or indeed, to any of us.”
Tears were by now flowing down Sareth’s cheeks and he looked at them in wonder.
“You would weep for this creature? You would actually shed tears at the thought of its demise?”
She nodded, brushing the tears away with her hand. “He has always shown great affection for me, and I have grown fond of him.”
The Khaldor and all the elders, stared at her in disbelief. Yet Vesarion sensed something stirring in the atmosphere and wisely said nothing.
Gorm was not enjoying his stay with the Perith-arn. He knew a few words of the Old Language and that, together with observing the gestures and expressions of those around him, enabled him to piece together what was going on. He knew he was in trouble, but reposed an almost obsessional faith in Sareth’s ability to get him out of it. However, since arriving at the large island, he had seen little of her. He knew she had tried to visit him, because his sharp ears had overheard her arguing with his guards, but she had not succeeded and he was left alone in his cage. His only visitors had been a group of small children, who had sneaked past the guards and stood staring at him with a mixture of fascination and fright. Gorm had allowed himself the small pleasure of scaring the wits out of them. He had slowly bared his impressive set of teeth, shot out his claws and issued a bark that had scattered them like leaves before a gale. He then sat back on his heels shaking with unholy glee, but his moment of bliss did not last long. His guards, thinking he could not understand them, had discussed his fate amongst themselves. Although Gorm could not follow all they said, he clearly understood the words ‘Turog’ and ‘execute’. He also gathered that his beloved Sareth was in danger, too, and that was a state of affairs he had to do something about.
His chance came at noon the day after their arrival. A guard approached his cage bearing a bowl containing the same disgusting slop that they had given him the night before. The man stuck a spear between the bars of the cage, forcing the Turog to back away from the door before he opened it, and tossed in the bowl. However, when he left, Gorm noticed one small but intensely interesting detail – the latch on the cage door had not been fully secured. He cast a shifty glance towards the guards. They were standing in a group a short distance away, deep in conversation. The latch was beyond his reach, so looking around for an implement to assist him, Gorm spotted a stick lying a little way beyond the bars of his prison. However, even by stretching out his arm to its furthest extent, it was still a tantalising fraction beyond his reach. It then occurred to him that one of the advantages of being a Turog was to be the proud owner of an impressive set of talons. Out his claws shot and in an instant the stick was his. Stealthily he set to work on the latch and a few moments of frantic prodding produced results. The cage door swung open and in an instant one small Turog was amongst the trees, heading towards the landing stage as fast as his short legs would carry him. He had no very clear idea about what he intended to do, other than the vague notion that he would steal a boat and then sne
ak back under cover of darkness to rescue Sareth.
No sound of pursuit followed him as he pounded along the path between the reeds, but just as he reached the landing stage and untied a boat, he heard a man’s voice behind him.
“Stop, Turog! Stand where you are!”
Gorm whirled round, claws once more extended. There on the bank above him was a tall man, one of the Perith-arn, and more alarmingly, he had Sareth in his grasp. He had twisted her arm up her back and was holding a knife to her throat.
“Do not move, Turog,” he commanded in a stern voice. “Surrender yourself, or I will slit her throat.”
Gorm bared his teeth and gave a soft growl of anger.
“I mean it,” warned the man, pulling Sareth’s head further back. “I swear, Turog, if you take one step towards that boat, I will kill her.”
Again Gorm issued a threatening snarl.
“Don’t listen to him, Gorm,” Sareth cried. “They mean to kill you. Get away from here! Quickly!”
Gorm looked at the boat bobbing beside him on the water, then he looked again at Sareth and his shoulders slowly drooped in resignation.
“Not kill Sareth,” he said to the man. “Gorm gives in.”
With that, he retracted his claws and stepped away from the boat. Slowly he began to climb the slope towards the man. When he stood before him, he looked up, his yellow eyes inscrutable. “Let Sareth go. Kill Gorm instead.”
The man released Sareth and looked down at the small Turog in amazement.
“I would never have believed it!” he exclaimed. “Had I not witnessed it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it.”
“You see?” Sareth said to her erstwhile assailant. “All I told you about him is true.”
By this stage, Gorm’s eyes were bulging in his head in his efforts to make sense of events.
“Sareth not afraid of this man?” he asked uncertainly.
“No, Gorm. It was a test – and you passed it magnificently.”
As she spoke, the Khaldor, his elders and the rest of the company emerged from the concealment of the trees.
