by R. J. Grieve
The door opened behind him and Bethro turned to confront a thin scribe he had detested ever since the man actually had the nerve to say that his verses in honour of Queen Triana were trite. Moreover, to add insult to injury, he had entered the room as if he had every right to be there.
“What are you doing in my room?” demanded Bethro, outraged.
“My room, I think you’ll find,” was the infuriating response.
Bethro cast a choleric eye over him and decided that the conclusion he had come to long ago about the man was entirely justified – he had a face like a ferret with its tail caught in a trap. Buoyed up by his analogy, he drew himself up to his full height and announced grandiloquently: “I did not risk danger and death in the Forsaken Lands just to bandy words about with a miserable specimen like you. Now, get out!”
But the ferret proved stubborn. “This is my room and I am the King’s Librarian,” replied he, in an insufferably self-satisfied voice. “You get out!”
Bethro had borne enough. Descending from the heights of outraged dignity, he grabbed a large scroll and without warning smartly clipped the man across the head with it.
“Get your horrible face out of my sight!” he bellowed, going red in the face and emphasising each word with a vigorous whack. “Now, GET OUT, before I lose my temper!”
The ferret, to his dismay, realised that he wasn’t up to Bethro’s weight and was forced to exit the room with ignominious speed.
Bethro, left in sole possession of the battlefield, smoothed the crumpled scroll and sat down at the table well pleased with himself.
“It really is good to be home again,” he announced to the empty room.
As Iska had predicted, the council of war went on late into the evening, long after the shadows had fallen and the candles in their tall holders had been lit. When he finally emerged, Vesarion made his way to Sareth’s apartments and found her seated on a long settle by the fire, staring into its golden depths. She was dressed in a wine-coloured silk gown that would have won Enrick’s approval, but Vesarion could not decide whether he preferred her in breeches with her hair flying wild, ready for any adventure, or as a graceful princess, poised and elegant. In the end, he decided he liked both. He sat down beside her with a sigh and leaned his head back against the settle. She drew close to him and slid her hand into his.
“A long session,” she commented.
“Yes, a very long session but there was surprisingly little disagreement. All that can possibly be done, is now in train. The barons will return to their lands in the morning with the King’s fiat to raise troops. Messengers are being dispatched as we speak to Serendar and the Isles of Kelendore to ask for aid in pursuance of their treaty obligations. Every forge in the Kingdom will soon be busily making weapons. I have persuaded Enrick that we should consider meeting Mordrian in battle beyond our borders, in the Forsaken Lands. I think it unwise to let him cross the Harnor, as there is simply not enough time to prepare properly for that eventuality. Addania is not equipped to stand siege and it is not possible to get enough provisions into the city in time to feed its population. No, this time, I think we should cross the Bridge of the Twelve Arches and meet our enemies outside Eskendrian territory. So much faith is being placed on the power of the sword, and in the old myth that a hostile army can never invade Eskendria while it is in our possession, that I feel it would not be wise to put matters to the test. The state of morale amongst the troops is a thing not to be underestimated. This is especially true if reinforcements from Serendar do not reach us in time, because we will then be on our own - and we will be outnumbered. Confidence is crucial to our chances of success.”
“Will we be ready in time?”
“Who knows? All I can tell you is that it takes more to make an army than gathering men together, and we have little time to do anything more.”
“There will be many who will point out that the Harnor was always the first line of defence in the past,” Sareth reminded him, “for there is nowhere it can be forded. It is a formidable barrier in Mordrian’s way.”
“It is. Enrick has ordered all the bridges except the Twelve Arches to be destroyed, but what concerns me is that Mordrian may have access to powers that we know nothing about. Powers that mean that the river is no longer the defence that it should be.”
“The demon?”
“Yes, and also the black warriors. I am depending on Gorm to give me sufficient warning of their approach and what he tells me will largely determine how and where we meet the threat. Needless to say, there was uproar amongst the barons when they heard that we are depending on information supplied by a Turog. To say that it did not go down well, would be an understatement, but we have little choice, and for all their bluster, they know it.”
“I hope nothing has happened to him,” Sareth said anxiously.
“I hope so, too. It is strange how after centuries of fighting the Turog, the fate of Eskendria now lies in the hands of one of their number.”
Alas, they did not have long to wait. Three weeks of the most frantic activity followed the war council, with the entire kingdom galvanised into action. Orders and proclamations flew from the pens of the King’s scribes, but rumour by far outran them. Word spread from mouth to mouth, and town to town until the whole land was aflame with the news that the armies of Adamant were on their way. Men began to stream into Addania and the baronial capitals from every village and farm. Sturdy lads, more used to wielding a pitchfork than a sword arrived to offer their services. Older, more experienced men from every trade and profession, from carpenters to candle makers, rallied to the call to arms. Stores of armour and weapons, kept under lock and key for years, saw the light of day once more. The wheels of the grindstones flew, sharpening weapons, grinding rust off every sword until it was bright and every spear until it was sharp. Messengers arrived from the King of Serendar promising support as soon as it could be arranged. Those who had settled across the Harnor in the margins of the Great Forest, fled from their homes to safety south of the river and every bridge, except one, in obedience to the King’s orders, was demolished. In anticipation of the worst, every castle and fortress in the land prepared for siege, knowing well that the neglect of over half a century could not be made good in a day.
Vesarion worked harder than them all. Travelling back and forth to Westrin to supervise the raising of recruits and putting the Ravenshold Brigands through their paces, in recognition that the elite cavalry would be crucial in any fight.
Eimer and Bethro proved an unlikely but effective combination in gathering provisions for the army’s march into the Forsaken Lands – if such was to be its fate. But all this desperate activity still depended on the loyalty and stealth of one small Turog.
Then abruptly one day, with the autumn rain pouring out of the heavens, Seldro’s reliable young man presented himself, dripping water, at the door of Sareth’s apartments. He spoke only three words to Vesarion: “It has appeared.”
Vesarion, accompanied by Eimer, left immediately and they rode through the rainy night, stopping only to change horses at quiet country inns, banging on doors in the small hours to arouse the landlords. By early morning the following day, they were within sight of their goal. The Bridge of the Twelve Arches was the biggest and most solid structure to cross the mighty river Harnor. The river had been spanned by some sort of structure at this point since the days of the Old Kingdom, but the present bridge was relatively recent, its predecessor having been destroyed in a futile attempt to keep out the invading Turog army in the days of Erren-dar. Now, once more, it was the only means of entering the Kingdom from the north and beyond it lay land that had once been part of the Golden Kingdom and had been abandoned so long it had earned the name ‘forsaken’.
However, on a pleasant autumn morning, with the silvery dew beading the spider’s webs, and the trees, those timekeepers of the seasons, just beginning to be tinged with gold, the world seemed strangely at peace. The bridge pointed like a grey finger northwar
ds towards the unknown, its sturdy piers sunk in the dark waters. As their horses clattered over its cobbled surface, the two riders could hear the swish of the powerful current, tugging relentlessly at these obstructions.
They soon found that Seldro’s young man had not lied. There, on one of the pillars at the northern end, sat a round, white stone.
“Maybe you should wait here,” Vesarion suggested to Eimer.
“If it’s all the same, I’d like to come. I want to make sure the little fellow is all right.”
“Very well. I think we should head for that dense patch of trees. Knowing Gorm, that’s where he’ll be.”
But all was quiet in the copse, except for the alarm-call of a blackbird a little perturbed by their presence. The air was as still as if it was anticipating something, and the trees were so silent that each leaf that parted company from its branch could be heard gliding to the ground. Then a familiarly gruff voice behind them said: “Vesarion and Eimer looking for something?”
Eimer swung round, leaping with impressive athleticism from the saddle. “Gorm! Old Fellow! How are you?”
Vesarion swung his leg over the pommel and slid to the ground in more sedate fashion. The yellow eyes fixed on him. “Sareth well? Sareth happy?”
Vesarion smiled with something that might almost have been affection. “Yes, Gorm, Sareth is well, and missing you, I think.”
The Turog grinned delightedly. “Much to tell you,” he said, becoming business-like. “Two armies travel through Forsaken Lands towards Eskendria. Many wagons and carts, so they travel slowly. Mordrian leads the army of men, but black soldiers march separate from the men.”
“Have you discovered what they are, Gorm?” Eimer asked curiously.
“No. Don’t know. They never take off masks, even at night. Gorm is a very good spy. Gets very close and no one sees him, but never sees their faces.”
“Where are they heading, Gorm?” Vesarion asked.
“You know of big, big open place in Great Forest?”
Vesarion shook his head. “No. None of us knows much about the Forsaken Lands.”
“Well, there is big open space, many leagues wide, in Great Forest to east of here – maybe two day’s march from Harnor. That is where they are heading.” He then added musingly: “Good place for a battle. Level land. Lots of room.”
“You make it sound more like a small plain than a clearing,” Eimer suggested.
“Yes, like a plain surrounded by trees.”
“Are you sure of where they are heading, Gorm?” Vesarion asked.
Their spy nodded vigorously. “Crept close to Mordrian’s tent one night. Heard him talk about route. Very nasty man,” he noted critically. “Don’t like Mordrian.”
At this, Eimer threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve missed you, do you know that?”
Gorm merely grinned his toad-like grin.
But Vesarion alone did not smile, for the time had come to ask the question he dreaded asking. “How far away are they from this open area?”
“Seven, maybe eight, days.”
The two men looked at one another. “Is it enough time?” Eimer asked.
“It will be tight, but I think we just might be able to get to this open area ahead of them.”
“I doubt the troops from Serendar will be here in time,” Eimer sighed. “It seems that, once again, we are on our own.”
Gorm, not quite following, recalled their attention with all his usual directness. “What now?”
“Could you lead us to this open area from here?” Vesarion asked.
“Yes,” was the simple reply. “Gorm knows the way.”
“Then, once more, you must be our guide. You must lead the Eskendrian army to this open plain and it is there that we will confront Mordrian. Eimer and I must return to Addania to give this news to the King and prepare the army to move out. In the meantime, wait here until our army arrives at this bridge, by then I will have gained safe conduct for you from our King.”
Eimer rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that.”
But Vesarion rounded on him. “Do I have to explain it to you as well? We must trust Gorm to guide us otherwise it is possible that we will miss Mordrian and end up in total disarray. This bridge cannot be destroyed with the Eskendrian army on the northward side of it and Mordrian would then have the perfect opportunity to outflank us.”
For once there was not even the hint of a smile on Eimer’s face and he said grimly: “We take a terrible risk, Vesarion.”
“I know. Every decision we make from now on will be a risk, for there are never any certainties in war.”
The sun, rising over the city of Addania on a clear autumn morning, shed its light on an impressive scene. There, spread out across the plain that lay before the city, was the entire Eskendrian army drawn up, division by division, in marching formation. Each division was arranged in neat ranks, every man fully armed and accoutred. At the head of the contingents were their respective barons, mounted on their finest steeds, and escorted by squires bearing banners carrying the symbol of their barony. Iska, looking out at the stirring sight from the top of the massive bastion beside the gate, could distinguish the burly figure of Lord Veldor, rendered even more burly by an impressive suit of plate armour. His squire, looking diminutive in comparison, carried a tall standard bearing his master’s blood-red flag emblazoned with a black boar. At the head of the next division, my lord of Gorlind’s long, swallow-tailed banner snaked out in the light breeze, and so it went on, with banners of every colour and device imaginable. The breeze caught them all, fluttering them gaily, rendering the plain an inspiring sight. The Ravenshold Brigands were drawn up in two neat lines on the far side of the bridge, their blue cloaks bright in the diamond-clear air. Behind them, a regiment of archers, comparatively drab in dark green, bore their deadly crossbows on their shoulders with the steely-eyed look of men who would not hesitate to use them.
Iska, looking down at the thousands of assembled men, thought they looked so magnificent that they seemed invincible, and had to remind herself that the army they marched to meet was even more formidable, outnumbering them by almost two to one. The invading forces also brought amongst their company more than just men, for they harboured beings that might not even be human, the extent of whose powers were unknown.
Crossing to the inner side of the bastion, she looked down into the narrow city street that wound its way up the hill to the palace on its crown. The mighty gates of the city just below her were standing open, winched back on their chains, and beside them waited Sareth, escorted by a bevy of squires in royal livery. She was waiting to fulfil her role in the ancient ceremony of leave-taking. A ceremony that had not been enacted in over a century – for it took place only when the King left the city to lead his army to war. But now, briefly, before the black clouds of conflict descended, Eskendria was to celebrate the glory of its finest young men marching off to defend their country. In what state they returned, if they ever did, fate alone would decide.
Running her eye over the colourful crowds chattering excitedly, that lined both sides of the cobbled street, she found herself wishing bitterly that her brother had never been born. As she watched children running in and out between the solemn guards marking the route, laughing and chasing each other, and mothers calling unavailingly to them, holding petals in their hands ready to cast at the feet of the King, she experienced an emotion she had never known before. For the first time, Iska knew a deep, intense anger at the thought that all these people might suffer destruction and death in the name of her brother’s greed, and lust for power. The anger welled up in her, flushing her cheeks, surprising her with its intensity. Almost glad to be distracted by a buzz of excitement coming from further up the street, she leaned out further over the wall, taking care not to spoil her borrowed dress, trying to see what was happening. Guessing that the King must be approaching, she hurriedly made her way down to Sareth.
“I couldn’t see anything, but I think they are comi
ng,” she whispered, but Sareth, looking a little pale, merely nodded in reply.
At the top of the hill, within the throne room and well away from the curious crowds, three men were preparing for the ceremony. Two were dressed in cloaks of royal red over their chainmail but the third, although he had royal blood in his veins and was entitled to wear the red cloak, had elected instead to wear the deep, sapphire blue of his beloved Westrin. Vesarion’s cloak was emblazoned in sliver thread on the right shoulder with the symbol of his barony – a sword inside a circle of chalice flowers. Over his chainmail hauberk he wore the scabbard bearing the sword of Erren-dar. Deliberately, he folded the left side of his cloak back over his shoulder, so that the sword could be seen by the awaiting crowds. As he drew on his gauntlets, he glanced across at Eimer, now wearing the plain gold band of a Prince’s coronet, his new-found dignity a little belied by the irrepressible twinkle in his eyes.
When the King was ready, the ancient crown of Eskendria, not worn since his coronation, was brought from the treasury and he sat briefly on the throne for it to be placed on his fair hair. When he arose, the sun, slanting in through the open doors, flashed on the large ruby in the front of the crown. He bore an expression in his eyes that Vesarion had never seen there before – the look of a man prepared to give all he has in a desperate cause.
