The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  Vesarion nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth of the words. “Yes, from the moment you said it, I knew. I just wasn’t sure if my resolve was equal to the test.”

  “Then we differ in that,” the Keeper replied. “I knew you would not fail, and yet I see before me a man changed by his experiences. It has uncovered in you a strength of character that I think you had no idea you possessed. This will stand you in good stead for all that is yet to come. To be worthy of the sword, it was necessary that this quality be uncovered in you, because the weapon that you have endured so much to retrieve will not obey every hand that holds it. It knows those who have the right to command its allegiance. You have it by your side, I assume. May I see it?”

  Vesarion rose to his feet and smoothly withdrew the weapon from its scabbard and laid it on the table before the old man.

  “Ah! A magnificent weapon. I knew it would be beautiful. It has a simple, almost austere grace that needs no ornament. It is one of the very few swords made by the smiths of the Old Kingdom that still survives. It is strange that there are so few, because the blades never rust, or break, neither do they lose their edge, so there would be no occasion to throw one away. Yet as surely and inevitably as snow melting in spring sunshine, the remaining swords are vanishing. It’s almost as if they are aware that they were not intended for the world in which they find themselves. The art of making them has long been lost and when the last one is gone, their like will not be seen again.”

  Eimer spoke up. “Keeper, you talk as if the sword has a will of its own.”

  “Not in the sense you mean, young man, but when the master of the Order of the Flower blessed it at its making and caused the three flowers you see before you to be incised into the blade, he gave it a latent power that remains hidden, unreleased within it, until the moment for it to appear arrives. Erren-dar, by his very touch on the hilt of this sword, caused the blue flame to appear on the edges of the blade and unleashed that power. Yet in the hands of those accounted unworthy, it is no more than a very fine weapon. Have you used it in battle, Vesarion?”

  “No, not yet, so I do not know if it deems me worthy or not. If I recall correctly, you said there is another way to release its power.”

  “Indeed. At the moment of greatest need, it will respond to its name. Alas, such things were kept secret, even in the days of the Old Kingdom. All I can tell you is that it must be the one who wields the sword who must discover its name.” He ran his fingertips lightly, even reverently, over the engraved chalice flowers. “Never fear, Vesarion, it will come to you when you need it most, for somewhere, buried deep in the recesses of your mind, you already know its name.”

  Eimer looked at Vesarion speculatively but received only an abrupt shake of the head in denial. Addressing the old man, who was still staring at the sword as if mesmerised, he asked: “And what about the black sword, Keeper?”

  “From Iska’s description of its forging, it would appear to be a foul copy of the original. Do not underestimate it, for it was made by a Demon of Darkness, one of the Destroyer’s most powerful servants. The demon will have put into it all that is within itself – all the cruelty, the malice and the desire to enslave. As such, it represents a very real danger.”

  Eimer blew out his cheeks. “You don’t need to tell me. I fought Prince Mordrian when he was using the black sword and it cut such deep notches into the steel of my blade, that it was all but useless against it. If Iska had not thrown a lighted oil lamp at him at the critical moment, it is entirely likely that yours truly would not be sitting here enjoying this magnificent repast.”

  “The Prince will not wait long before launching his attack on Eskendria,” advised the Keeper. “From what you have told me, he is not a patient man and even if he were, he would find himself ruthlessly driven on by the will of the Destroyer. He may think that he may meddle with such things and bend them to his will with impunity, but there is always a price to be paid. The House of Parth may have survived the fall of the Old Kingdom by selling themselves to the Destroyer, but now he possesses them and pours darkness into their souls. The young princesses that you found entombed in the mountain bear witness to that. They refused to bow to evil, and so dark had the souls of their fathers and brothers become, that they slew them and buried them in secret. Yet as the world turns and the stars grow old, all secrets will be exposed and all that is hidden will be made plain. I know that you, my dear Iska, have mourned your whole life that you failed to please your father, but mourn no longer, for you have something better than power – a kind and honest heart. Such a thing should never be underestimated.” He sighed. “And now, my children, you go to warn your kingdom of its peril, and to fight for the last remnant of all that was once glorious. Like this sword, if Eskendria is lost, its like will not be seen again. Should the last tiny fragment of the glory that was once the Golden Kingdom fall, there will be none left amongst mankind with the strength or will to defeat the servants of the Destroyer. Then his power, like a black cloud, will overshadow all lands and peoples and light will be extinguished in darkness. In my youth, I would not have hesitated to stand with you and use my gifts as a Brother of the Sword to defend you from this demon, but my strength is gone now and although I have extended my life long beyond the span of nature, that too, is coming to an end. I feel a weariness upon me and I think that Kel and I will soon take the path up over the rain-washed hills, amongst the purple heather, where the golden sky seems to go on for ever. It is the path, that we all, in the end, must take.”

  A silence descended on the table as he finished speaking. Each face was pensive, even a little sad, for there was a sense of parting, a sense that so much that was good and beautiful was on the point of leaving the world. Bethro, ever the romantic, wept in his heart at the thought that when this, the last of the ancient Order of Sages, had gone, then truly wonders and enchantment would desert the face of the earth, leaving nothing but greyness behind.

  The Keeper struggled to rise to his feet, clearly exhausted by so much conversation. Vesarion swiftly stood up and placed a supporting hand under his elbow.

  “Thank you, Vesarion. You are ever courteous. I must rest now for a little while, but I have already prepared your rooms and hope you have all you need. Come, Kel, it is time for our nap.”

  Sareth, upon ascending the stairs, found the same little note pinned to her door with her name on it. The room too, was unchanged. The deep windows still overlooked the sunny, daisy-speckled lawn. The bed still bore the same lace-edged pillows and soft eiderdown. Even the rose-coloured dress still hung in the cupboard. When she drew back the curtain that concealed the copper bath, she found, to her delight, that it was once more full of hot water. Not since the springs of Sirindria Eleth had she known such a luxury and she sank gratefully into the heat, staying in it until the water started to grow cold. Once she was dressed again, the sight of the comfortable bed enticed her and she lay down. A delightful lassitude stole upon her and in an instant she was asleep.

  Vesarion, opening her door some time later, peeped in to discover her deep in slumber, lying at an odd angle on top of the bed. Not wishing to disturb her, he was on the point of withdrawing, when, as if at some deep level aware of his presence, she opened her eyes.

  He smiled. “You’re awake, are you? I looked in an hour ago and you were so deeply asleep, I could have blown a trumpet to no avail.”

  She stretched and sat up. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long. There’s just something about this place that is so peaceful and safe. It’s as if nothing bad could ever happen here.”

  “I feel it too. It has a homely quality, but for all of it, this is not our home, Sareth, and I’m afraid we cannot linger but must press on with our journey in the morning. Perhaps we could come back in happier times and spend a longer visit with the Keeper, but for the present, we must make all haste back to your father. I do not know exactly when Prince Mordrian intends to make his move, but like the Keeper, I feel it in my bones that it will be soon. He w
ill want to attack before winter sets in and already the summer grows old and the smell of autumn is in the air. Every day that we delay, is a day less for Eskendria to prepare. There is so much that needs to be done to bring it to a state of readiness for war, that I do not know how we are going to achieve it in time. Sixty years of peace has made us complacent. The standing army is too small to even begin to stem Prince Mordrian’s aggression, never mind deal with the Black Warriors. We must levy recruits from all the baronies and they must be armed and trained. Emissaries must be sent to our neighbours in Serendar to ask for help. Although they did not aid us the last time we were attacked, we now have a treaty of alliance with them that surely they must honour.” He looked at her ruefully. “As for us, I know I spoke blandly about my powers of persuasion, but I confess, with so little time to spare, I think it unlikely that I will be able to convince your father that it is the appropriate time for a wedding. If only I could….” Suddenly he broke off, a certain rapt expression stealing over his face.

  “What is it?” asked Sareth, aware that something of importance was brewing.

  “Of course!” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands in frustration. “Of course, you fool! Why didn’t you think of it sooner?”

  Sareth was lost. “Why didn’t I think of what?”

  “Not you. I was talking to myself. I’m the fool!” He gripped her shoulders in excitement. “I’ve just had an idea!” he exclaimed, refusing to resort to coherence.

  Her eyes were dancing in amusement. “Excellent,” she commended warmly. “That puts you one ahead of Eimer.”

  If she expected an explanation, she was to be disappointed, for he was possessed by urgency.

  “Stay here!” he commanded, but he had taken no more than two strides towards the door when he spun round and grabbed her by the hand. “No, on second thoughts, come with me.”

  Paying no heed to Sareth’s protests, he dragged her willy-nilly out the door and down the stairs to the main chamber. It was deserted, all signs of their repast having vanished from the table in the usual disconcerting manner.

  “What fiend has seized you?” she asked laughingly.

  “Where is the Keeper?” He demanded, scanning the room. “I was hoping he would be here.”

  He stepped backwards and his heel descended on something that unfortunately felt like someone else’s foot.

  “Oh, sorry, Keeper. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Quite all right, young man. No permanent damage done, I think,” the old man replied, valiantly blinking to stop his eyes watering.

  Without further preamble, Vesarion plunged right in. “Keeper, am I right in saying that in the old days, the Sages had the power to conduct marriage ceremonies?”

  Enlightenment dawned on Sareth.

  The Keeper looking a little taken aback admitted it was true. “Well, yes, but…..”

  “Good,” declared Vesarion determinedly. “Then I want you to marry me – us – that is, Sareth and me.”

  His betrothed was by now enjoying herself immensely. “Elegantly handled,” she teased.

  The Keeper was still trying to fend off Vesarion’s insistence. “Yes, but….but I haven’t done such a thing since….since….actually, I can’t remember the last time. I don’t think I can even remember how!”

  But all his attempts at procrastination were swept aside like a sandcastle before an incoming tide.

  “It can’t be difficult. I mean, the words are in the Book of Light – all you have to do is read them.”

  Sareth was still vibrating with suppressed mirth. “When you said you could be persuasive, I had visions of something a little more subtle than a charging bull.”

  At that moment, the others walked in.

  “What’s going on?” Eimer asked.

  Blissfully disregarding any further protests that the Keeper might wish to make. Vesarion announced blithely: “You are all invited to a wedding.”

  Iska clapped her hands in excitement. “Wonderful! When?”

  “Right now.”

  But Eimer raised a caveat. “Er…shouldn’t you ask my permission? That is, assuming it is Sareth you are intending to marry? Since father is not here, I suppose I represent the head of the family,” he announced, managing, with tolerable success, to keep his face straight.

  Vesarion, the bit well and truly between his teeth, overrode that objection as well. “I already have your father’s permission, you young pup.”

  “Yes, but that was for the first betrothal. He knows nothing about the second – which is an entirely different matter. I mean, the first was a nice, logical matter of state and then you had to go and ruin things by falling for my tomboy of a sister. So, in my opinion, we have to start again.”

  It was Iska who put an end to such nonsense. “Eimer?” she asked sweetly. “Would you like to have your ears boxed?”

  Noting Eimer’s craven reaction to this offer, Vesarion forged ahead. “Good. Then we’re ready.”

  “No we are not ready!” contradicted Sareth unexpectedly. “I refuse, repeat, refuse to get married in breeches. Having waited so long, I think you could spare me half an hour to get changed – and besides,” she added, looking him over critically, “you could do with a shave.”

  He grinned. “Very well. Half an hour it is, then…..oh, damn!” He clapped his hand to his forehead. “I forgot about the ring! Sareth, could you give me back the ring?”

  She looked at him blankly. “What ring?”

  “The ring I gave you so long ago in Addania?” he explained patiently.

  “But I haven’t got it. I left it on the log the day we had our famous falling-out.”

  He frowned. “I don’t understand. I went back later that day to get it and it had gone, so I assumed you had come back for it.”

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”

  They stared at one another in perplexity, then light dawned on them at exactly the same moment.

  “Gorm!” they cried together.

  Vesarion turned to Eimer. “Would you oblige me by going to fetch him? He won’t want to come, but don’t let that stop you.”

  Eimer had already taken a step towards the door, when Iska called him back. “Wait. It can’t be Gorm because the Perith-arn emptied out all his treasures in front of us and the ring was not there.”

  “We’ll see,” was all Vesarion replied, and he nodded to Eimer to proceed.

  When he had gone, and Iska and Sareth had ascended the stairs to get ready, Bethro, ever punctilious, pointed out that they were still a ring short.

  “If you wish to follow the more recent fashion of exchanging rings,” he advised portentously, “then a man’s ring is still required.”

  The Keeper, who had sunk into a chair, a shade exhausted by all this activity, said faintly: “Bethro, oblige me by bringing me the wooden box that is in the dresser over there – Kel will show you,” The cat paraded across the room with its tail in the air, followed a trifle ludicrously by Bethro. It stopped by an ornate dresser and Bethro, rummaging in the interior, produced a carved box and carried it to the Keeper.

  “When I took over this tower so long ago, it contained many things, including this box.” He opened it to reveal an assortment of bits and pieces that would have gladdened Gorm’s heart, but amongst the debris was a large, silver ring, engraved all the way round with chalice flowers.

  “This ring is very old,” explained the Keeper. “Perhaps as old as the tower itself. It’s a man’s thumb ring, but such things are long out of fashion and it will be too big for your ring-finger, Vesarion. However, I think we can do something about that, can’t we Kel?”

  The cat merely blinked and wrapped its tail around itself smugly.

  The old man took the large ring and set it on his open palm. Indistinctly, he began to mutter some words under his breath and before their astonished gaze, the ring began to shrink.

  “There,” he declared in satisfaction. “I wasn’t sure I could remember how to do that, but it is grat
ifying that I still know a trick or two.” He handed the ring to Vesarion. “Try it for size.”

  Bethro watched, fascinated, while Vesarion slid the ring onto the third finger of his left hand.

  “Perfect,” Vesarion announced. “Thank you, Keeper.” He handed the ring to Bethro. “Keep it until we are ready – and speaking of ready,” he added, rasping his hand over his chin. “I am reliably informed that I am in need of a shave. I don’t suppose a clean shirt would go amiss either.”

  Acting on the words, he took the stairs two at a time.

  When he descended again, he found Sareth and Iska awaiting him. Sareth was dressed in the same rose-pink dress she had worn before and her rich, glossy brown hair was loose on her shoulders. As he approached, she gave him a smile so radiant with happiness, that he felt his throat constrict. And he realised that in all the years of striving to be the perfect Lord of Westrin, during which he had bestowed justice and fairness on his people and the blessing of being able to live in safety, he had never before brought happiness to anyone, and the feeling was strangely humbling.

  The sound of an altercation in the passageway, signalled the return of Eimer and Gorm.

  “Don’t want to see wizard,” an indignant voice carried to them. “Don’t like stone tower.”

  Eimer came into view, dragging a protesting Turog by the collar.

  “He wasn’t keen on the idea, I gather,” Vesarion observed, with masterly understatement.

  Eimer sucked a scratch on his hand. “You could say that,” he agreed. “He seems convinced, for some obscure reason, that the Keeper wants to turn him into a piece of fungus.”

  Gorm had stopped struggling and had fallen silent by this stage, for his eyes had fallen on the Keeper, sitting in a chair staring back at him in some bemusement.

  “So, this is the famous Gorm you told me about,” he remarked faintly. “Well, well. Who would have thought it? A Turog aiding humanity against his own kind.”

  The Turog in question, wriggling free of Eimer’s grasp, scuttled across to Sareth and said in a clearly audible whisper: “Don’t let him turn Gorm into something nasty – please!”