by R. J. Grieve
“Neither do I, but nevertheless, it must be done, for unless this is achieved, Eskendria is lost. The King must send to Serendar and our other allies for aid, but first of all we must resolve this dissention and unite the country once more. We cannot fight an enemy if we are occupied in fighting each other. The first step is to recover control of Westrin, and to do that swiftly I am going to have to take something of a risk.”
The valley of Sadris-karn lay before them, nestling with unexpected verdancy between the soaring peaks of the Westrin Mountains. Only four of the company emerged from the shade of the woodlands to view the sheltered vale, just now bathing contentedly in the late summer sunshine. Bethro had remained behind at Forestfleet, as he had been summarily requisitioned by Pevorion to act as his scribe in assisting with the lengthy business of composing letters to all the barons. If truth be told, although he indulged in a token amount of grumbling, it was a task Bethro relished - and a comfortable bedchamber with feather pillows, and three enormous meals a day did nothing to detract from its appeal.
The remaining companions were possessed by urgency, leaving at first light the following morning. Only one incident had marred their departure. Aythar had lost no opportunity in informing his brothers of the state of affairs, for their help would be needed to raise the necessary recruits from Sorne. His youngest sibling, an amiable lad of somewhat limited mental resources, had fixed his eyes in fascination on Iska, who was seated opposite him at breakfast.
“So you’re from Adamant,” he said, in the manner of someone clearing the ground before asking another question. “I hear you are one of those witches of Parth.”
Iska looked at him warily and did not reply, but Eimer’s spoon halted its journey half way to his mouth.
“The witches of Parth were said to have great power,” continued the lad, oblivious to atmosphere. “Why don’t you help us by putting a spell on this Mordrian? Or do you not want to because he is your brother?”
Eimer’s spoon landed back in his bowl with a clatter, and he said with uncharacteristic sharpness: “I don’t know what Aythar has been telling you, but Iska is no witch. Do you not realise that the very fact that she did not inherit the dark powers, put her life in danger? If Mordrian could get his hands on her, he would kill her. She has lost her home and very nearly her life to save Eskendria, so do not dare to address her in such a fashion.”
The young man, like all Pevorion’s sons, was of impetuous temperament and ready to take offence. He began to rise from his chair, until his father, endorsing the Prince’s stricture, told him perfunctorily to sit down and mind his own business. Nevertheless, the incident had brought home to Iska that her position in Eskendria was tenuous at best.
She had half been expecting Vesarion’s barony to be like the storm fortress – a bleak affair set amongst hostile mountains, but it surprised her by being very different. The Westrin Mountains were majestically beautiful. The lofty, violet peaks were snow-tipped, outlined with dreamy purity against a cobalt sky. Their remoteness was pierced by many sheltered valleys of great size, clothed with alternating areas of woodland and neat farmsteads and bifurcated by chattering rivers that descended from the melting snow above. The high mountain air had an exhilarating quality all of its own, rendering every colour so clear and bright that it almost hurt the eyes. Wide expanses of turf swept down to the valley floor, clothed in grass that seemed impossibly green. The pasture was studded with many mountain flowers – blue gentians, golden hawksbit and heavily-scented thyme, all grazed by nimble sheep that scattered before their horses. Down below, the rivers cast back the sun like dazzling bands of silver. Yet above them, circling the iron-hard peaks on stiff wings, a solitary eagle released its lonely cry.
The expression on Vesarion’s face had changed once they reached the place of his birth. The stern look that had been present ever since he had heard of Enrick’s perfidy, had softened with affection. Although every rock and tree was as familiar to him as his own hand, he looked at them with renewed pleasure, as if seeing them for the first time. Yet the look made Iska aware that his devotion to this land meant that whoever had usurped his place, had a deadly opponent on his hands.
The fortress of Ravenshold still bore the imprint of its original function – to defend the border against incursions by the Turog, and was, indeed, a little daunting. A hard fist of rock projected from the valley floor and upon this the fortress brooded, its tall towers circled by the birds that gave it its name. Once, it had stood on its prominence isolated and alone but now a village had sprung up at its roots. Unlike Sorne, the principal town of Westrin was situated some miles to the south, safely away from the frontier, but as the Turog withered from being a credible threat, to merely annoying renegades, a few hardy souls had begun to construct houses within the shadow of the castle’s walls. Now, a fair-sized village had emerged, complete with smithy, bakery and an inn that belied its relatively recent construction by being so covered with ivy it looked as if it had grown there.
Iska, looking around her with interest as they made their way up the cobbled street, found it a pleasant place. It drowsed quietly in the warm sunshine, the only very active inhabitants being a group of children playing with a dog on the village green. Their activities made her smile, for the dog had made off with their ball and was good-naturedly frustrating their attempts to recover it, by running around a tall wooden structure that supported a bell.
Yet although their cries of laughter echoed down the quiet street, over everything fell the shadow of the mighty castle. A ramp, cut into the living rock, steeply ascended to its gateway, where a yawning archway revealed the steel bars of a portcullis that was forbiddingly lowered. Iska, tilting her head to look up at the castle towering above them, saw a stronghold far removed from Forestfleet. No homely state of decay here. It looked ready, and more than capable, of withstanding the most determined assault. How the four of them were meant to take such a formidable redoubt into their control, was a matter beyond her comprehension.
They passed the forge, ringing with the sound of hammering and came to a halt outside the inn. The landlord, with the sixth sense exclusive to his profession, instantly knew he had potential customers and bustled into the cool, dark hallway just as they entered. He surged forward to welcome them, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. What can I offer you? Accommodation for the night? A tasty meal? Perhaps a glass of something cool to quench your thirst?”
But at that moment, the tall stranger who had been the last to enter the inn, came into the landlord’s field of vision. The man’s eyes widened in shock and he staggered back a pace or two.
“It cannot be! My lord, is it really you? They said you were dead!”
“Don’t worry, Rhinn, I am not a ghost. I was detained in the Forsaken Lands for some time, but as you see, I have returned all in one piece.”
“And thank heaven for it,” exclaimed the man fervently. “Right sorely you have been missed, my lord. Every one of us will be glad to see you back in charge again, for this new lot,” he said, jerking his thumb derisively towards the castle, “are a bag of thieves and bullies.”
“Times have been hard?”
“Indeed they have, my lord. This new crowd take what they want, but they do not pay. Parents will no longer send their daughters to work at the castle, such misbehaviour has been going on. Every maid in the place has left and the only woman who stayed is old Mistress Elwyn, who would not be removed as your housekeeper even if an entire army of Turog descended. That commoner, Berdis, can try to call himself Lord of Westrin if he likes, but no one else will call him that. Everyone is very punctilious about addressing him as ‘steward’ just to annoy him. No, my lord, there is no Baron of Westrin except you. I cannot begin to tell you the joy it will bring to see you back again.”
“I take it that this state of affairs is the reason why the village is so quiet.”
“Indeed, yes, my lord. The good folk around here deem it adv
isable to stay out of Berdis’s way. In fact, strictly between ourselves, he is ruining me. My inn does so little business now, I do not know how I am to survive. The miners who work in the silver mines used to come here for refreshment, but no longer, for Berdis robbed them and called it taxation. Traders and merchants passing through on their way to Serendar avoid us now, for they were suffering a similar fate. I fear you have much damage to repair, my lord.”
Vesarion jerked his head towards the taproom, bringing the catalogue of complaints to an end. “Is Seldro there?”
“He is. The King is out for his blood, because he knew that the Brigands would remain loyal to you as long as he commanded them. He’s been on the run for months now. I had to get his family safely into Serendar, courtesy of a merchant I knew, to prevent them being used as bait to trap him. He thinks he’s here to meet my lord of Sorne, so I’d give a fortune to see his face when you walk in.”
Seldro had aged since Vesarion had last seen him. Although still only in his early forties, threads of grey had found their way into his dark hair. He was unshaven and his clothes were worn and streaked with mud. When the door opened, he jerked to his feet with all the speed of a man who has been constantly hunted. Yet, when his eyes fell on Vesarion, all he could do was to stand speechlessly and stare.
Vesarion, noting the tiredness on his captain’s face, was moved with compassion and crossed to him and grasped his hand warmly.
“You have suffered much for your loyalty to me, my friend. I can only hope that some day I can repay you.”
“My lord,” gulped Seldro. “You live.” His eyes strayed past Vesarion and he made another discovery. “Prince Eimer and…and Princess Sareth!” Then recollecting himself, he bowed slightly to Sareth. “Forgive my rudeness, Princess.”
“Actually, Seldro, I am Lady of Westrin now.”
Seldro’s eyes returned in a dazed fashion to Vesarion. “How can this be?”
Yielding to the pressure of Vesarion’s hand on his shoulder, he sank into a chair and listened intently to all his lord had to tell him of the last few months.
“You will appreciate that speed is of the essence,” Vesarion concluded. “We must therefore lose no time in toppling this so-called King’s Steward. Are the Brigands still here at Ravenshold?”
“Half of them are. The other half are in Addania. I have remained in touch with my lieutenant, Ordrin, who has now been promoted to take my place, and am certain his loyalty still lies with you, but as you are aware, he is a cautious man, little prone to defying orders – which is probably why he got the job. This new work the Steward finds for him to do, is little to his liking, for he is a decent man. The Brigands are the finest mounted troops in the Kingdom, but this cur, Berdis, has them extorting money from farmers at sword point. Such things sit ill with them.”
“Will the Brigands turn, once they know I am still alive?”
Seldro looked him in the eyes. “I think they will, my lord,” he replied firmly.
“Then we must put the matter to the test, for we do not have the time to spare for intrigue and are forced to adopt the direct approach.”
He rose to his feet and strode to the door, hotly followed by Eimer who had an inkling of what was about to happen.
“Are you going to do what I think you are going to do?” the Prince enquired.
“Very probably,” was the laconic response. “First we must flush the rat out of its hole.”
He crossed to the village green, where the children were still playing by the old bell, and turned sharply to Iska.
“Take the children out of harm’s way into the inn, Iska,” he commanded, and although she would have liked to have stayed, he was in the sort of mood that made her little inclined to oppose him. Interpreting the look on her face, his expression softened a little. “Please, Iska, it is possible that this could get a bit nasty.”
She nodded and catching them by the hands, hurried them away. Vesarion stepped onto the low plinth upon which the tall wooden frame was built and grasping the bell-rope, pulled vigorously downwards.
Instantly, the bell’s clear, insistent peal rang across the quiet village, reverberating off the stone walls of the mighty fortress towering above them, and echoing off along the distant valley. On and on it rang, its ominous call striking fear into all who heard it. Eimer knew it would soon elicit a reaction, for it was meant only to be sounded when there was an attack by the Turog.
Doors began to open in the village. Shutters were slammed and a tumult of voices could soon be heard. The blacksmith, a mighty bear of a man, emerged from his forge with his hammer still in his hand. Soon, many men were converging on the green, all bearing the tools of their trade as makeshift weapons. The moment they came within sight of the bell, a clamour went up.
“Are we under attack? Where are the Turog? They have not crossed the border in an age! What is happening?”
When the tall man ringing the bell turned to face them, a collective gasp went up.
The blacksmith, one of the few left in possession of his wits, pushed his way to the front.
“My lord, you have returned! We were told you were dead.”
Murmurs of astonishment swept through the crowd like an autumn gale through the treetops.
Vesarion stood on the plinth and in a strong voice addressed the villagers. “Men of Westrin, do you know me?”
Many voices answered him. “Aye, my lord, we know you.”
“And who do you say I am?”
A shout went up as they answered as of one voice. “The rightful Lord of Westrin.”
“I hear that things have not been well with you since I left.”
Again, the blacksmith answered for them. “They have not, my lord. It is as if the old days have come again, when the fortress once housed a nest of bandits. This barony is being treated like a bird ripe for the plucking and the justice we had come to expect under your rule has gone.”
At that moment, there was a rumbling noise from the castle, as the steel portcullis began to rise protestingly on its chains. Everyone swung round to look upwards at the dark gateway piercing the castle walls high above them. In an instant, mounted men began to emerge, three abreast, from the yawning mouth of the fortress and began descending at a brisk trot towards the village. They were all fully armed with swords and maces and wore chainmail hauberks and helmets with long nose and cheek guards. Over their hauberks, they wore cloaks of a deep, sapphire blue, the colour of Westrin, emblazoned with a chalice flower on the shoulder. Swiftly they descended the ramp and began to fall into formation before the uneasy crowd. A few of the fainter-hearted villagers deserted, and began to slip away to their homes. Seldro saw that even the braver ones were sorely afraid, and for good reason, for they knew they were no match for such a force. Still, mounted soldiers kept pouring from the fortress, until Prince Eimer, making a hasty calculation, estimated that almost a thousand had assembled on the level ground below the castle. The crowd of villagers now looked perilously like a flock of lambs before a pack of wolves. The blacksmith suddenly felt Vesarion’s hand on his shoulder.
“Never fear,” he murmured softly. “I do not expect you to take on such a force. The bell was merely intended to extract them from the castle.”
When all the Brigands had assembled, three mounted men began to descend from the fortress.
The one in the centre, Sareth recognised, for he had often been seen around the palace at Addania in the company of her brother. Berdis was a powerfully built man, full of arrogant self-confidence. Although of humble birth, he had risen far by making himself indispensable to Enrick. What her brother found for such a man to do, Sareth could only guess, but she assumed that Berdis’s adaptable morals must make him a useful tool. On either side of him rode two men not in the uniform of the Brigands. Indeed, none of the three wore armour but all had heavy swords that rested against their thighs and they managed to convey the impression that they knew well how to use them.
“Here comes trouble,” mutt
ered Eimer to no one in particular.
The three guided their horses over to confront the villagers.
“Who rang the bell?” demanded Berdis, his neatly trimmed beard bristling with anger. The crowd murmured sullenly, but no one replied.
“Whoever did this will pay for it” he snarled. “ Now answer me! Which of you rang the bell?”
Vesarion stepped out from the crowd, flanked by Eimer and Sareth.
“I did,” he said calmly.
Berdis glared at him, identifying him with a sense of shock. A rustle of recognition went through the Ravenshold Brigands, but the King’s Steward did not lack for nerve and recovering his poise swiftly, decided to brazen it out.
“And who might you be?”
“You know who I am, Berdis” replied Vesarion evenly.
“He is Vesarion, Lord of Westrin,” intervened Seldro sharply. “And well you know it.”
A pair of cold eyes swivelled towards him. “And you are a renegade with a price on your head. I think we can discount what you say.”
Returning to Vesarion he said contemptuously: “Vesarion of Westrin is dead. If you claim to be him, then you are an impostor and a liar.”
Eimer saw a muscle go taut in Vesarion’s cheek, a sure sign of anger, but he had himself well in command. Ignoring Berdis, he turned to face the Brigands. “Do you know me, Captain Ordrin?”
Ordrin let his horse walk forward a pace or two. “Yes, I do indeed, my lord, and right glad I am to see you restored to us, but you must understand that I am under direct orders from the King himself. To arrest his appointed steward would be treason.”
