The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (33 page)

 The valley they were
following lay in a gentle fold of rolling downs, covered in short, tough grass
interspersed with clumps of clover, daisies and vetch. Here and there outcrops
of limestone broke through the thin covering of soil. There were no trees,
other than a few stunted thorn bushes bent double by the prevailing winds, and
utterly no cover of any kind. Such openness made Celedorn uneasy, and during
the next few days, as they travelled over the rounded hills and shallow,
slightly marshy valleys, this feeling was transmitted to them all, so that they
walked in silence, scanning each new horizon for danger. However, they saw not
a soul, not a living thing - other than some rabbits, one of which Celedorn
caught, providing a welcome relief from austere rations. Elorin gathered wild
thyme and sage from the limestone outcrops and produced a tasty stew.

 One night they camped
beside an escarpment of grey stone, at the foot of which a little spring
spilled from a horizontal crack in the rock. It chuckled its way between lush
banks of watercress, reminding Elorin of the stream in the Meadowlands where
she and Celedorn had bathed their feet - an event that seemed an exceedingly
long time ago.

 As darkness fell, the
fire was extinguished. As they settled down in their blankets for the night,
Elorin made the discovery that Celedorn was missing.

 ‘Typical!’ she thought.
‘He tells me off for what he does himself!’

 She lay down again, assuming
there was a natural reason for his absence but when he still had not returned
some time later, she silently arose and tiptoeing between the sleeping figures,
went in search of him. She hadn’t far to go, for she had scarcely taken a dozen
paces when she almost collided with him in the dark.

 “What are you doing,
Elorin?” he asked sharply.

 “Looking for you. Where
on earth have you been all this time?”

 “Sssh, keep your voice
down.” He took her arm and guided her away from the camp. “I’ve been up on top
of the escarpment to get a better view of the surrounding countryside. From the
top you can see the downs rolling off into the distance, until they meet some
dark feature which might be a line of trees. Just as the light was beginning to
fade and I was thinking of coming down again, I saw something - a line of
lights travelling along the top of one of the ridges. It was difficult to be
certain, but I’m pretty sure they were torches. They were not heading this way,
but our course southwards will take us towards them tomorrow.”

 “Turog?”

 “I assume so. The
distance was too great to see who or what was carrying the torches. I’ll be
glad when we reach the trees and get away from these bare hills.”

 “Should we make a
detour?”

 “No, I don’t think it’s
necessary. They were moving westwards towards the coast. I watched them for
some time and if they keep up their present pace and direction, they will be
well out of sight by morning.”

 “This place is not as
empty as it seems.”

 “The Forsaken Lands are
never empty, I told you that once before.” He jerked his head towards the camp.
“They assume that because we have not yet met anything hostile, that such
things do not exist. Such complacence is sheer folly. We would have done better
without them.”

 “You are certainly consistent
on that point, if on nothing else.”

 She caught the flash of
white teeth in the darkness.

 “That’s your one saving
grace,” she declared ruefully. “A sense of humour.”

  He was disappointed.
“Only one?”

 “Be grateful. Neither
the Prince nor Triana would credit you with any - hardly surprising given the
way you behave towards them. The only one who might have a kind word for you is
Relisar.”

 “And what, pray, have I
done to offend Triana?”

 “Scared her half to
death.”

 Even in the darkness
she could see his scorn. “She is easily frightened. You had far more to fear
from me at Ravenshold and I don’t recall you making as much fuss as she does.”

 “No, but I am not the
daughter of the Lord Protector, used to being treated only with courtesy and
consideration. I have come to the conclusion that I must be some fisherman’s
daughter. That would explain why I am so at home by the sea, and why I can
catch fish and cook and other such mundane things.”

 “You forget, you are
well-educated and can speak the old language. No fisherman’s daughter could do
that.” When she didn’t reply, he added: “You feel it puts you further from him
than ever?”

 She nodded.

 “You are no fisherman’s
daughter, Elorin. Your features are too fine, your bearing and manners too
graceful.”

 “Careful, Celedorn,”
she warned. “That came perilously close to a compliment.”

 “I leave compliments to
your Prince.” He paused, his mind dwelling on the Prince. “He....he is not what
I expected. It’s a pity I cannot forget that he is his father’s son.”

 “What does that mean?”

 “Nothing,” he said
abruptly. She sensed him withdraw from her, unwilling to explain himself and
wary of being questioned further. “You had better get some sleep. I will remain
on watch.”

 She accepted her
dismissal and returned to her blankets. This was not the first time that she
had suspected that Celedorn harboured some sort of personal grudge against King
Tharin, but she had no idea what it could be or even how such a thing might
have arisen. She was glad that Celedorn’s antipathy towards the Prince was a
least becoming a little equivocal.

 Her relief, however,
was unfortunately premature, for it was the hostility between the two men that
nearly resulted in disaster for the entire company.

 Morning revealed no
sign of the Turog, and swiftly the company crossed the undulating downs,
heading with determination towards the dark line of trees that grew closer with
every rise they crested. Once amongst the trees, Celedorn appeared to relax a
little, now feeling that he was in his natural habitat.

 The wood was composed
solely of mighty oak trees, their gnarled trunks of impressive girth, and their
spreading branches meeting overhead to form a continuous canopy. Their ancient
roots twisted and writhed over earth innocent of any undergrowth, increasing
the impression of a great, many-pillared hall. A light breeze had sprung up,
wafting cool air amongst the trees, setting their leaves aflutter. The ground
continued to undulate beneath the forest, creating shallow tree-filled hollows
and gentle ridges.

 As the day progressed
towards evening, they had just found a suitable place to make camp for the
night, when Triana incurred Celedorn’s displeasure. While Elorin quested around
looking for dry firewood, Triana sat idly on her pack and rested.

 Celedorn frowned his
forbidding frown. “Triana,” he said sharply, “make yourself useful. You are not
in the royal court at Kelendore now. Go and help Elorin.”

 She looked up,
startled, as always intimidated by him. Her frightened expression was not lost
on the Prince and aroused his protective instincts. Rather unwisely he
retaliated on her behalf.

 “Do not speak to her in
that tone. I don’t know what kind of women you are used to dealing with, but
Triana is gently born and should be treated with courtesy.”

 The provocation was
readily accepted. Celedorn raised his brows sardonically. “Indeed? You wish
perhaps to give me a lesson in manners?”

 “You certainly need
one,” snapped Andarion, the bit now well and truly between his teeth.

 Celedorn laughed
contemptuously. “Surely you would not soil your noble sword on a common brigand
like me? Or is it possible that you fight your battles with words, like your
father.”

 The Prince’s face grew
rigid with anger. “How dare you speak of my father in that manner. Who, pray,
was your father? Or perhaps I ask what is not in your power to answer.”

  In response,
Celedorn’s scars flushed an ugly purple and a look of sheer malevolence crossed
his face. Elorin dropped the wood she was carrying, but this time she was too
late to intervene. In unison, two swords scraped clear of their scabbards.

 “Oh no!” gasped Elorin.

 “The Prince will teach
him civility,” Triana said smugly.

 But Elorin did not
share her confidence. “No, he won’t,” she declared with conviction.

 The blades clashed
together. The Prince at once gave a skilful twist of the wrist in an old trick
to disarm his opponent, but Celedorn was not caught by such a move and deftly
flicked his blade above the Prince’s and drove his sword downwards until the
hilts crossed. Although they were much of a height, Celedorn was more
powerfully built - although lean enough to command both speed and suppleness.
Andarion guessed that he would not win a confrontation of brute strength, and
disengaged. He instantly brought his sword sweeping upwards in an audacious
stroke that should have caught his adversary off balance, but was instead
countered as if it was expected.

 The Prince had been
well taught and did not lack skill or courage, moreover he fought
intelligently, rarely relying on force alone, but it began to become apparent
that he was not of the same calibre as his opponent. Celedorn’s sheer speed and
agility left those watching, gasping with fear for the Prince. His powers of
anticipation were such that Andarion began to wonder if the man facing him had
some uncanny ability to read his mind. Rapidly the Prince was being driven to
his limits. He was forced continually on the defensive, as Celedorn’s lightning
aggression took him to within a hairsbreadth of breaking through his guard. Yet
Elorin, watching closely, suspected that Celedorn was holding back a trifle,
not yet exerting his full abilities against the Prince.

 ‘He doesn’t mean to
kill him,’ she thought suddenly. ‘He means to humiliate him.’

 Celedorn had now taken
a double-handed grip on the hilt of his weapon, and was putting shocking power
behind his blows, forcing the Prince to retreat step by step.

 It was at this critical
moment that an interruption of a dangerous and unexpected nature occurred.
Clearly audible above the fight, there came the sound of a hollow thud.
Instantly, Celedorn identified the sound, and even before the others could call
a warning, he disengaged from the Prince and spun around to attack the snarling
Turog that had dropped out of the tree behind him. More thuds sounded as more
and more Turog plumped down out of the trees, their curved swords already in
their hands, their yellow eyes filled with the lust to kill.

 Ignoring the others,
they instantly attacked Celedorn and Andarion. Relisar put his arm protectively
around Triana and drew her back out of the way, but Elorin ran to her pack and
grabbed her bow. She fitted an arrow and swiftly drew it back to her shoulder.
She could hardly miss at such short range, and instantly one of the Turog fell
with an arrow embedded in its back. The two men, taller than the bowlegged
Turog, were surrounded by a seething mass of snarling grey bodies. The scene
resembled two stags mobbed by a writhing mass of hounds. Their swords flashed
and rang as they clashed with the Turog’s curved weapons. Celedorn brought his
blade downwards in a mighty double-handed blow that cleaved straight through
one of the Turog’s steel helmets right down to the jaw bone. Swiftly
disengaging, he reversed his grip on the hilt, and stabbed it backwards with
deadly accuracy into the belly of an opponent directly behind him. Relisar, who
had been anxiously watching him, was under the impression that he had not even
looked behind him. He seemed to be operating purely on instinct.

 Andarion too was
dealing roughly with his opponents. He had killed two but was being somewhat
overwhelmed by numbers. He was trying to keep his back to a tree to prevent
them encircling him, but was not being entirely successful. Elorin had by this
time expended all her arrows and seeing the Prince hard-pressed, picked up a
curved sword from one of the fallen Turog and waded into the fray. Aware that
she had not the strength to cleave a helmet, as Celedorn had done, she swung
the sword sideways, back over her shoulder and with all her might brought it
down on the exposed neck of a Turog intent, with single-minded dedication, on
attacking Andarion. It paid the price of inattention and dark blood spurted
from a severed artery as it dropped where it stood, leaving Elorin a little
sickened by her success. Her foray into the fight had now attracted the
attention of one of the sharp-toothed, slant-eyed creatures. It charged across
the clearing on it sturdy, bowed legs and attacked her. She defended herself as
best she could, but the creature was too strong for her and she retreated
before its blows. With a stab of panic, she realised that she could not defeat
it. Just as it struck down her guard under a heavy blow, a tall figure strode
past her and engaged her assailant. Celedorn swept the Turog’s blade aside in a
ruthless up-handed stroke and slashed the murderously sharp point of his sword
across its throat.

 The glade was now full
of tangled, dark bodies lying motionless on the ground. The two Turog left,
were both attacking Andarion. He killed one with a skilful stroke and the other
turned to be confronted with Celedorn. Faced with such an opponent, it dropped
its weapon with a howl of fear and took off down the slope as fast as its legs
would carry it. Celedorn, sword in hand, sprang after it.