The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  Gorm, whose mental processes had been working at maximum speed, announced suddenly: “Guards not careless. Let Gorm go on purpose. Wanted to see if Gorm is good Turog, or bad Turog.”

  Eimer grinned delightedly. “That was a very long speech for you, my small friend, but you are perfectly correct.”

  “The Turog are our enemy, and always will be,” said the Khaldor to Gorm. “I cannot accustom myself to thinking of them otherwise, but you had the opportunity to escape and instead were prepared to give your life in exchange for Sareth’s. That is no small thing – even amongst humans. Some day, Turog, you will die, no doubt at the hand of mankind, but it will not be today and it will not be at the hand of the Perith-arn.”

  Addressing Vesarion, he continued: “I am prepared to release this creature into your custody, provided you give me your word that he will remain hooded until you are out of sight of this island.”

  “You have my word, Khaldor.”

  “I am placing more trust in you, Vesarion of Westrin, than in any other person who has strayed into our lands, but I feel in my heart that you will not fail me. We will provide you not only with a boat but also with provisions. If you follow my directions, in four days you should reach the south-eastern shore of these marshes, and from there it is a mere two day’s journey to the Wood of Ammerith. You carry with you the fate of two nations, my friend. May Yervenar give you speed.”

  Iska sat as if in a dream, watching the sunlit waters slide past her. The large island had by now disappeared from sight, and Gorm had been released, spluttering with indignation, from his hood, and was now sitting as close to Sareth as the narrow boat would permit. On Iska’s lap lay a cape of soft, grey fur which had been her parting gift from Demeron. Once the promised provisions had been deposited in the boat and Gorm, hooded and bound, released into their charge, Demeron had approached her just as she was about to step aboard, and had given her the cape.

  “This is to apologise for my rudeness, Iska,” he said wryly. “My only excuse is that I felt it was about time that Eimer had his eyes opened.”

  To her relief, he did not seem to expect a reply, but had handed her into the fragile craft. He had stood watching them, long after all the other Perith-arn had gone, until their boat disappeared from view amongst the reeds.

  Now Eimer, who showed great adeptness with the oar, was at the back of the boat propelling them along through the tall forests of reeds and out into more open stretches of water, bordered by the ubiquitous white water lilies. As Iska ran her hands over the soft fur, she realised to her surprise, that she was a little sad to leave the Perith-arn.

  The next few days were amongst the most peaceful the companions had known on their journey. Each evening, they made camp on one of the tiny, uninhabited islands that the Khaldor had marked on Iska’s map. As Vesarion had surmised, much had changed since the map had been made, and many of the islands shown on it had disappeared beneath the rising water-levels. However, some still existed, and he noticed that the Khaldor chose small, deserted islands on their route, deeming it wise that they encounter no more of the three tribes.

  During the day, they travelled relentlessly to the south-east, passing the time by watching the sunlight sparkle on the water, listening to the quiet susurration of the breeze through the golden reeds and observing the flocks of birds bobbing on the water, apparently unafraid of them. They even got the occasional glimpse of a large, grey heron, skulking amongst the foliage, doing its best to persuade them that it was made out of stone.

  On the third day, the cheerful weather began to change as low clouds rolled in. The colour of the water altered by subtle degrees from blue to an intense slate-grey, rendering the lilies even snowier in comparison. A soft rumble of thunder floated towards them on the heavy air. Almost clandestinely, a fat raindrop plopped into the water, creating an ever-expanding ripple. Soon it was joined by countless of its brethren, embossing the quiet water in overlapping rings, and pattering like handfuls of beads on the lily leaves. As they were some distance from any of the islands, they had therefore no choice but to submit themselves to a soaking. Iska tucked her precious cape into a pack to try to keep it dry, for already her shirt was clinging to her and her dark hair, now grown once again to a less boyish length, was annoyingly stuck to her face.

  The oarsman, equally wet, and not enjoying it, was getting into difficulties. They had left the area of open water behind, and were now confronted with a mass of water lilies through which he was trying to force a passage. Ever denser and more luxuriantly they grew, tangling the oar and impeding their progress to such a degree that Eimer realised he needed some help.

  “Iska?” he called. “Would you stand at the prow and direct my course? I can’t see much from here and I need you to find the clearest channels.”

  Through the descending curtain of silver rain, he saw her take her position in the bow. Leaning into the downpour, she began to call out directions. Their teamwork immediately seemed to pay off, and they began to pick up speed again, but just as they were emerging into more open water once more, suddenly the boat collided violently with something submerged in the water. Everyone lost their balance and ended up falling in a heap in the bottom of the boat. Everyone, that is, except Iska. With a cry of fright, she was flung into the water and instantly sank from sight.

  “Iska!” shouted Eimer, scrambling over Bethro, nearly upsetting the boat.

  Briefly, she surfaced some distance out from the boat, flailing her arms wildly.

  “I can’t swim!” she shrieked. “I can’t…..” Her cry was cut short as she went down again.

  The two younger men were galvanised into action. Eimer was the quicker of the two, as he had already shed boots and scabbard. He dived over the edge with the speed and grace of a cormorant after a fish, closely followed by Vesarion.

  Both were taken by surprise by how deep the water was. Down and down they went, before they saw Iska frantically struggling amongst the tangling stems of a forest of trailing weed growing on the bottom. Eimer reached her first, and catching her around the waist, kicked vigorously for the surface.

  Together, they rose swiftly and abruptly broke the surface, gasping for air. But before they had time to do more, Iska gave a renewed cry of alarm and began to slip from Eimer’s grasp.

  “Something’s got hold of me!” she screamed. “It’s pulling me down.”

  Both Eimer and Vesarion struggled heroically to keep her head above water, but some force unknown was exerting itself against them and inexorably it drew her under.

  Vesarion dived again. Opening his eyes in the greenish underworld below the surface, he saw that Iska’s ankle had got caught in a strand of the long, slimy weed. Kicking hard, he descended to it and wrenched at the leathery strand until he tore it away from her.

  One again, Eimer got her briefly to the surface, but Vesarion, still under water, then saw what Eimer could not. A long, snake-like tendril of the plant shot upwards and whipping itself around Iska’s ankle, began to drag her down again. This time, despite Vesarion exerting all his strength against it, it would not let go. By this stage, Iska was running out of air and was going wild with fear, lashing out, making it difficult for Eimer to maintain a grip on her. Knowing that she had only moments of air left, Vesarion rapidly surfaced beside the boat.

  “Quick!” he ordered Sareth, who had been leaning dangerously over the side trying to reach Iska. “Get me a knife!”

  She snatched up a hunting knife and thrust it into his hand. Taking a huge gulp of air, he descended again into depths, now rendered murky by the struggle. Swiftly, he slashed the knife through the plant tendril, severing it. Eimer grabbed Iska by the collar and shot upwards. But before Vesarion’s astonished gaze, more and more tendrils began to rise up out of the cloudy depths. He gripped the knife, prepared to fight, but they ignored him and headed undeviatingly for Iska. He knew he must get to her first, and struck out for the surface with such vigour that he emerged so quickly he almost collided with
the boat.

  “Get her out of the water!” he yelled at Eimer. Needing no urging, Eimer propelled the limp form in his grasp towards Sareth, and between them, they hauled her into the boat just as dozens of searching tendrils broke the surface. Everyone watched in horror as a myriad of fat, snake-like, green stems writhed and wriggled on the face of the water, sometimes rising up a little as if testing the air, clearly seeking something. Some headed for the boat and brushed against its hull, causing both Gorm and Sareth to draw their swords. Vesarion and Eimer, treading water, backed away, but as before, the searching tendrils showed no interest in them.

  At last, apparently unable to detect their prey, the tendrils began to sink, one by one, until the water was still again, stippled only by the raindrops.

  With Bethro acting as counterbalance, Sareth and Gorm pulled aboard the two half-drowned men.

  “What was that?” gasped Eimer, wiping water out of his eyes.

  “I have no idea,” replied Vesarion, staring at the hunting knife in his hand. “All I know is that those things were not interested in you or me. They wanted only to get to Iska and if it were not for this knife, they would have succeeded.”

  Sareth, who had been putting a blanket around a shivering Iska, had a suggestion. “Do you remember that the three spirits of the lonely Lake said that the Destroyer was awakening the baser spirits of the earth? Perhaps this is such a case.”

  “But why did they go for Iska?” Bethro asked. “They had the opportunity to drown Eimer or Vesarion, but they didn’t.”

  “I don’t know. I’m just thankful that they apparently cannot detect their victims unless they are in the water.”

  No one had any answers. Vesarion, abandoning speculation, leaned his head back against the edge of the boat and instantly felt the heavy raindrops striking his face. “Will this rain never cease?” he asked no one in particular.

  The clouds, however, were not minded to oblige him, for it rained relentlessly for the rest of their journey across the Morass of Engorin. Their last night, camped on a small island that barely rose above the water, was a miserable one. Everything was saturated. The trees dripped dismally, offering no shelter whatsoever, and not enough dry wood could be found to light a fire. It was impossible to sleep, and everyone sat beneath the trees, huddled in cloaks already heavy with moisture. In the morning, the rain, as if finally satisfied with its vindictiveness, eased to a fine drizzle that seemed to condense in the air into a grey mist. It lay in eerie swathes across the landscape, sometimes so dense that Eimer, in the stern of the boat, could not see Iska in the prow. At others, it thinned, giving glimpses of sheets of steely-calm waters. A silence pressed down upon the marshes. Even the water birds had fallen silent. The only sound was the hollow clunk of the oar and the ripple of water passing under the keel.

  Everyone was acutely aware that it would be only too easy to get lost in such conditions, but all they could do was to carry on, hoping they were heading in the right direction. By noon, a pale, watery sun began to suffuse the mist with diaphanous silver, and soon materialised as a indistinct glow in the sky. It served to confirm that they had stayed true to their course. In a short time a solid, dark presence loomed up in the mist that proved to be the beginning of dry land. The boat grounded gently on the boggy margins and after unloading it, they hid it amongst the reeds.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you,” declared Eimer, pulling on his boots. “but I am happy to be back on my own two feet again.”

  Bethro, to whom any means of transport that involved sitting down was attractive, let the comment pass and merely pointed out that the Khaldor had told them that they should be only two day’s away from the Wood of Ammerith.

  Eimer understood him perfectly. “Not to mention a comfortable bed and plenty of good food, eh, Bethro?”

  Engaged in wringing rainwater out of her long hair, Sareth said acerbically: “Personally speaking, I’d be happy just to be dry again, but although the rain has stopped, everything is still soaking.”

  Vesarion, who had been scouting ahead, returned just in time to hear her remark.

  “There is an area of woodland up ahead. The canopy is fairly thick, so perhaps we will find some dry wood there and can get a fire going.” Without changing his expression, or even pausing for breath, he held out his hand to Gorm. “I believe I saw you loitering near my pack this morning.”

  Gorm, resigned to the fact that denial was useless, took the little box from his treasure pouch and reluctantly yielded it up.

  Sareth shook her head in amusement. “You are a hopeless case,” she berated the guilty Turog, who grinned widely, accepting it as a compliment.

  The dense canopy of the woodland had indeed helped to keep the forest floor dry, and a cheerful fire and dry clothes worked wonders for the company. Soon Bethro was chatting animatedly to Iska as he helped her construct a framework of branches on which to dry their belongings. Sareth disappeared amongst the trees in search of more dry wood, but when she hear a twig snap behind her, she dropped her armful of branches and swung round in alarm, only to discover that it was Vesarion.

  “The trouble with that damned boat,” he complained, “is that it was impossible to be alone with you.”

  She laughed, as he slid his arm around her waist and drew her closer.

  “I am well aware that we have not had a single moment to ourselves since Bethro so inopportunely descended on us at Sirindria Eleth. But,” she added, glancing around her, “unless my eyes deceive me, we appear to be alone now.”

  She turned up her face to him invitingly, and in response, he kissed her with such burning desire that it took her breath away. His arms tightened around her and his lips travelled to her throat, touching her with such tenderness that it elicited a soft sound of pleasure from her.

  Finally, in frustration, he stepped back abruptly.

  “Why have you stopped?” she asked in disappointment.

  “Sareth….” he began shakily, “don’t tempt me, for I swear to you, my self-control is close to breaking point.”

  She smiled at him. “It’s quite simple. Just give in to it.”

  “If only I could, but you know that if I love you truly, I must not. It is easy to forget, out here in the wilds, the rules of the society that we will be returning to. You are a Royal Princess, the daughter of a king, I cannot treat you as if you were….I mean, as if….”

  “As if I were one of Eimer’s barmaids,” she finished for him. “Sometimes I wish I was a barmaid,” she grumbled, “for they get all the fun.”

  He gave a choke of laughter. “Princess Sareth, I am shocked!”

  Sareth, eyes twinkling, sighed theatrically. “Alas, I have the misfortune to be betrothed to an honourable man, when all I really wanted was a scoundrel who would take advantage of me.”

  He grinned in response to this blandishment. “Believe me, I feel like consigning honour to the devil.” But his smile faded and he added seriously: “When I was left an orphan, your father took me in and treated me like his own son. I could not betray him and I would not be the man you think I am, if I did.”

  She nodded and drawing close to him again, leaned her forehead against his shoulder. In a rather muffled voice, she said: “I know you are right. It’s just that I feel we have wasted too much time already. This journey has taught me that life is a fragile thing and every moment of it is precious. I feel we must not waste a single instant.”

  “I know,” he groaned. “And what is more, when your father hears that an army is on the move against the Kingdom, the last thing on his mind will be wedding arrangements” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “But never fear, I can be very persuasive when I put my mind to it. Ours is going to be the most speedily organised royal wedding in the history of Eskendria….” At that point, he broke off abruptly in irritation. “Heaven help us, here comes your annoying little brother. I just knew we would get no peace!”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The Rose of Teltherio
n

  The Keeper was awaiting them at the door of the Rose Tower, with Kel sitting at his feet, his grey paws primly together. The moment the hedge parted to the word of command, the eyes of the companions had fallen on the oddly assorted pair, standing expectantly as if they had known when their guests would arrive, right to the very second. And although they were still deep in the Forsaken Lands, strangely it felt like coming home – at least, it did to five of them. Gorm was not with them, for he had refused point-blank to enter the tower.

  “Don’t like wizards,” he had whined, resorting to his favourite mantra. “Not to be trusted. Might turn Gorm into a toadstool.”

  Refusing to be budged on the issue, he had retreated into the golden woodlands, informing them that he would meet with them again when they were leaving.

  So the Keeper and his cat greeted five travellers, all of them a little weary from having journeyed throughout the night to reach the tower an hour after sunrise. Their host looked his usual fragile self, his slight form still exuding the sense of being dusted with cobwebs. Or as Eimer irreverently put it to Bethro – “I hope no one sneezes, for it might do him serious damage.”

  As they joined their host around the table in the circular chamber, their reunion was a happy one. Their host had provided them with such a munificent breakfast that even Bethro, eyes popping with delight, was satisfied. While they breakfasted, they gave an account of their adventures since they had departed from him, with everyone talking at once, and interrupting to give their point of view. Only Vesarion kept his own counsel, content to let others do the talking, but when Iska haltingly reached the part of the story where she had to describe what had happened to him in Adamant, the Keeper’s old eyes filled with tears and he looked towards the silent man across the table from him.

  “I think, in your heart, Vesarion, you knew all along that it would be you who would suffer so much to retrieve the sword.”