by R. J. Grieve
With a stab of panic, she realised that she knew nothing of the extent of her powers or how to control them. All she knew was that the man she loved stood alone, shield raised, waiting for the demon to strike him down, and the time had come for her to fight to save him.
Closing her eyes, she surrendered herself to the feeling of lightness and resisted it no more.
Eimer had been keeping his gaze fixed on his supernatural opponent, but out of the tail of his eye, he was distracted by a faint glow of a light. Flicking a glance towards Iska, he nearly dropped his shield with shock. The skin of her face and hands was glowing with a radiant white light that grew ever stronger as he watched. Moreover, her human shape seemed to be disseminating into something much more nebulous. She seemed to be dissolving into a silver-white mist, losing her defined outline until all solidity had gone and she had become a radiant silver cloud, within the depths of which was a searingly-white light, more dazzling than the brightest moon.
The demon, about to hurl its wrath at Eimer, also suddenly saw the glowing cloud. The blazing red eyes swivelled in its direction, puzzled, as the cloud began to drift gently towards it. What it saw seemed unthreatening, because in comparison with its own immense size, it was tiny, but the demon could not identify what it was, and this troubled it.
Tranquilly, the ball of glowing mist coasted across the plain towards the blackness, then it stopped a little hesitantly. For a moment absolutely nothing happened. Then it suddenly seemed to concentrate and draw itself tightly together and without further warning it flung itself at the demon. The two clouds collided with a flash and a sound like a clap of thunder. Instantly, the black and the white began to swirl around one another, gyrating and spinning like a whirlwind, faster and faster. A roaring, rushing noise swept across the plain and the men, released from the captivity of the demon’s gaze, scrambled to get out of the way, shouting in terror. Both clouds lifted clear of the ground and rose into the air. The aerial battle continued and was now a screaming vortex streaked with black and white from which shot bolts of lightning into the surrounding sky. The grey plain lit up with flashes of angry red and the roaring sound increased in volume.
Eimer and Sareth, crouched together behind the shield, stared upwards, transfixed, as the war raged across the skies above them.
Then, without warning, there was an immense explosion accompanied by a flash of light so blinding that everyone winced with pain and shut their eyes. At the same instant there was a crash of thunder, powerful enough to rock the entire plain, knocking anyone on their feet to the ground.
When the sound died away, echoing off in waves across the forest, an eerie silence replaced it. Heads cautiously began to be raised and it was seen that the battling clouds had vanished without trace, leaving the world oddly still. There was only one visible casualty of the battle. The black warriors had collapsed where they stood and now lay in tangled, lifeless heaps.
Eimer sprang to his feet. “Iska! Iska!” he cried. “Where are you?”
In the centre of the plain, lay the fragile body of a young girl, her face hidden beneath her black hair.
Eimer dropped his shield, and tore across the grass until he reached her. Flinging himself on his knees beside her, with a shaking hand, he drew back her hair. Her face was drained of colour and her breathing was shallow, but she was alive.
“Iska!” he called, gently supporting her in his arms. “Iska, answer me.”
He got a soft groan in response and looking down, he discovered a pair of rather dazed amber eyes staring up into his own.
“You had the power all along,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t know?”
“Not until the demon threatened you” She drew a shaky breath. “Eimer, I cannot stand yet, so you must carry me to Vesarion. Quickly, for I feel his time is short. Once his soul has departed, there is nothing I can do for him.”
Swiftly he caught her up into his arms and carried her to where his sister knelt, holding her husband’s still form protectively against her.
He set her down beside them, and weakly she managed to heave herself onto her knees.
“Does he still live, Sareth?” she asked urgently.
Sareth’s throat had closed and she was barely able to speak. “I don’t know,” she managed to say. “I can’t feel him breathing.”
Iska placed her fingertips on Vesarion’s neck and very, very faintly she detected a pulse.
“I pray I have the strength left to do this,” she whispered, and gently she placed her palm over the terrible wound in his shoulder. Closing her eyes tightly, she summoned up all of her remaining strength, all of her will, and pictured in her mind as clearly as she could the wound closing. As she tried to concentrate, she saw him in her mind’s eye as she had done on their journey. She saw him steadfastly facing the wolves in the snow. She saw him enfolding Sareth in his cloak when she had a fever. She saw him defy her brother before being chained to the Traitor’s Pillar. Banishing the painful picture, instead she thought of him on the day he had married Sareth. She had seen the look that had passed between them as they exchanged rings, and she knew she had found the image that would save him. Within herself, she thought: “He cannot die. He has such courage and love in his heart, he cannot die.”
Although she was unaware of it, as the words passed through her head, her hand, pressed to his wound, began to glow with the same silver light that had shone from the cloud. Sareth caught her breath when she saw it, almost afraid to hope. Iska did not open her eyes, but instead increased her concentration, summoning his image from her memories, searching for him in the shadowlands between this world and beyond. And suddenly in the darkness of this realm, her hand touched his. His fingers closed around her and she felt his grip to be strong.
“It’s time to go home,” she said softly to him and began to retreat the way she had come, drawing him with her. “It is time to return to Sareth.”
At first, to Sareth desperately watching, nothing seemed to happen. Vesarion still lay with his head back, his eyes closed and Iska, drained by her ordeal against the demon, was visibly weakening, but just as the light in her hand began to fade, suddenly Vesarion gave a shuddering gasp, like a man surfacing who has been under the water too long. His chest heaved and he took in a deep breath of air. He opened his eyes and looked directly up at Sareth.
They stared at one another for a long moment as if neither could believe what had happened.
“Iska found me,” he said quietly. “She came for me and brought me home to you again.”
Sareth, almost beside herself with joy, did the logical thing in the circumstances and burst into tears, clutching him convulsively.
Her brother, close to tears himself, found relief in exasperation. “For heaven’s sake, what on earth is there to cry about, Sarry?”
“I don’t know,” sobbed his sister, burying her face against Vesarion, effectively thwarting his attempts to sit up. Finally, managing to get upright, he put his arms around her and brushed away her tears with his hand.
“Eimer’s right, you know,” he said, looking into her eyes. “This is no day for tears.”
And suddenly all her grief was gone and she was as radiant as the sun when it comes out after rain. He rose to his feet and returning her smile, held out his hand to her and drew her into his arms
At last, releasing Sareth, he became aware of his surroundings and looked around in perplexity at the shaken men of both armies, gingerly picking themselves up from the ground. “Did I miss something? What happened?”
Eimer, feeling totally unequal to an explanation, merely said: “Long story, but suffice it to say that the demon has been defeated and as its will was all that animated the black warriors, they too have succumbed. Also,” he added, nodding towards Mordrian’s twisted remains, “come and look at this.”
Their eyes followed his pointing finger and they saw that the black sword was no more. It had dissolved into the ground, leaving a s
oot-like mark in the shape of a sword on the grass.
“It’s gone,” whipered Iska. “It is over at last.” And as her eyes met Vesarion’s, they exchanged an intense look that rendered words unnecessary between them, for they had been together in a place that none of the others could comprehend. Sareth, however, was less restrained and throwing her arms around her friend, whispered in her ear: “I cannot find the words, Iska. I cannot even begin to find them.”
“None are needed, Sareth, you know that,” she replied, but as she spoke, her eyes strayed past her friend and what she saw caused her to announced warningly: “My brother is coming.”
Misunderstanding her, both Eimer and Vesarion whirled round, reaching for their swords, but it was Kerac, alone and unarmed, who approached them.
“Where is your King?” he asked, looking at Iska.
Enrick, who had been a silent and chastened bystander to these events, now stepped forward.
“I am Enrick of Eskendria.”
“My brother is dead,” said the Prince without a trace of regret. “And I, Kerac, now command the army of Adamant. This is a war between our two lands that should never have happened. I did not know that my brother was possessed by the demon but it now explains the obsessive hatred he bore towards Eskendria - a hatred that drove us all to the very brink of ruin. With your agreement, King Enrick, I will withdraw the army of Adamant and we will return to our own land. The Destroyer has provoked enmity between our two kingdoms, but when my father dies and I am king, perhaps such things can change.”
“A noble sentiment, Prince Kerac,” Enrick replied. “Only time will tell if it becomes more than words. Withdraw now and return to your home and let no more blood be spilt today.”
Kerac nodded and after an enigmatic look at Iska, returned to his men. King Enrick also gave her a long stare.
“Eskendria owes you a great debt, daughter of Parth. I did not know you possessed such powers.”
“Sire, I did not know it myself.”
The King turned to Vesarion. “She has healed you of your wound?”
“She has,” he confirmed. “Apart from a little stiffness, it is as if my shoulder had never been harmed.”
Eimer, quicker to gain his equilibrium than his friends, slapped Vesarion enthusiastically on the back.
“That was one hell of a fight you undertook. I don’t think I have ever seen anything like it.”
Vesarion glanced down at his sword, now safely restored to its rightful place by his side. “The sword of Erren-dar won the fight.”
But the young prince would not allow it. “No, it didn’t, Vesarion, it was your stubborn courage that won it. Even your great ancestor would have been impressed.” He looked around him in satisfaction, as the armies of Adamant began to file back into the forest, preparatory to their long journey home. “Then all ends well, it seems,” he declared thankfully.
But Sareth gave a cry. “No it doesn’t! We have forgotten something!”
Every eye met in sudden realisation. “Gorm!” they cried in unison.
Hurriedly they searched the battlefield until they found the little Turog stretched lifelessly on the grass. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, displaying his impressive teeth, and there were black scorch marks all over him.
“Can you do anything for him?” Sareth asked Iska anxiously.
She knelt by his side before standing up again, smiling. “I don’t need to. He isn’t dead, only knocked unconscious.”
Eimer bent and shook the prone form by the shoulder. “Gorm, old fellow, wake up.”
Gorm groaned but didn’t open his eyes. “Protect Sareth,” he muttered.
“Sareth is here,” Eimer informed him, “and perfectly well, as are we all. So wake up you little malingerer. You might be as tough as boot leather but you missed the most exciting bit.”
Gorm remained unconvinced. “Going to die,” he moaned.
“You’re not going to die. You were only knocked out,” Iska reassured him.
A pair of yellow eyes opened. “Not going to die?” he asked suspiciously.
“No – at least, not today.”
The information acted on Gorm like a tonic and he sat up as if moved by a spring.
“Feel better now,” he announced and failed to understand why everyone else laughed.
Looking around him he said in revelatory tones: “Vesarion not die either?”
“No,” Eimer replied, smiling. “It seems the house of Westrin will not end today.”
Sareth, feeling the moment had come, slid her hand into Vesarion’s and looking up at him, said significantly: “The House of Westrin is definitely not going to end.”
He returned her look blankly for a moment, then catching her meaning, he drew in his breath sharply. “You mean…..?”
“Yes.”
“So soon?”
She smiled saucily at him. “You underestimate yourself.”
Vesarion gave a shout of joy and catching her into his arms swung her round delightedly.
Eimer, always one to have the last word, observed: “So, Erren-dar will have yet another heir.”
“What if it’s a girl?” Iska suggested mischievously.
“If she’s anything like her mother, then heaven help us all!” declared the Prince fervently.
******************************
Some weeks after these events, as the autumn ripened into a rich amber fruitfulness before the advent of winter, a man and a woman stood together in a wooded clearing. They were accompanied by a short figure that was clearly not human, and even more clearly, was ill at ease. They had escorted him from the fringes of the Great Forest across the Bridge of the Twelve Arches, deep into the mountains of the Barony of Westrin. Gorm looked up at Sareth and Vesarion, wondering why they had brought him here. Although he trusted them more than any other human beings, he was nonetheless uncomfortable to be so far into the territory of men. His yellow eyes, therefore, held a question that Vesarion hoped he could answer.
“We’ve brought you here, Gorm, because, to be honest, we were not sure what to do with you,” he admitted. “We are deeply conscious of all that we owe you and felt that we could not abandon you to live, as you did once before, in the Great Forest, bullied and persecuted by the other Turog. We also know that you don’t like towns – places of stone – and perhaps you are wise, because close contact with people, especially those who do not know you, would only end in grief.”
“Although,” interrupted Sareth mischievously, “you are going to have to overcome your dislike of places of stone on at least one occasion, because you are invited to a wedding.”
“Don’t like wedding,” Gorm promptly replied. Then reviewing his statement, in the interests of honesty, he added: “Except for the food.”
Sareth laughed. “There will be plenty of food at this wedding – for it is a royal one.”
“Whose wedding?” Gorm demanded suspiciously.
“Two old friends of yours – Eimer and Iska.”
Gorm wrinkled his forehead doubtfully. “King like that?” he asked with remarkable perception.
“No,” Vesarion replied feelingly. “The King does not like that. He has been ranting and raving about how the royal house will be polluted with the blood of Parth, but as Eimer is of age there’s not much he can do about it, short of locking him in a dungeon.”
“That would do it,” Gorm conceded.
“Besides, he’s inhibited by the fact that he’s worried that if he annoys Iska too much, she’ll turn him into something nasty.”
“Ha!” cried Gorm, wickedly amused by that.
Sareth, taking this as a good sign, said: “So, you will come, won’t you?”
But the little Turog shook his head. “Gorm not belong anywhere. Not with humans. Not with Kalthak.”
This caused Vesarion and Sareth to exchange significant glances. “That is why we brought you here,” explained Vesarion. “You are now deep in the Barony of Westrin, in a remote area of forests and mou
ntains where there are few people, and….well, we thought you might like it here.”
He handed the Turog a rolled up parchment bearing a red wax seal stamped with the King’s insignia. “I have given strict instruction to my people not to molest you, but just in case there is any doubt about the matter, the King has sent you his writ, sealed with the royal seal, granting you the right to live in Eskendria with his blessing and protection.”
Gorm took the parchment gingerly, but as he still looked doubtful, Sareth added her voice to Vesarion’s.
“We thought it was the sort of place that would appeal to you, for there are mountains and forests with plenty of game and many streams.”
But to her dismay, the little Turog’s ears were drooping dismally. “Sareth not live here,” he noted, refusing to be comforted. “Never see Sareth again.”
“Of course you will, Gorm,” she laughed, delighted to be able to reassure him. “Ravenshold is only half a day’s ride from here. We can see one another any time we like.”
The ears lifted a trifle. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
Gorm responded with a grin so wide that it displayed to full advantage his formidable set of teeth, and began to look around him with new interest.
Rising majestically above the trees, the Westrin Mountains were dreamily snow-capped, startlingly white against the deep, eternal blue of the sky. Here and there silver banners of cloud flew from the highest peaks, drifting westwards towards the sea.
Bringing his gaze to his closer surroundings, Gorm saw a stately forest of beech and oak trees, now ablaze with shades of copper and gold. The mellow, honeyed light of autumn descended in shafts between the trees to illuminate sheltered, mossy glades. A drowsy peace nestled over the forest, laced by the quiet gurgle of the clear stream on its busy way down from the peaks, and from the tallest tree floated forth the cool, fluting song of a blackbird.
Gorm took it all in, and then, sighing deeply, felt moved to make a momentous announcement.
“Like it here,” he said contentedly.
