The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (68 page)

 “Is it true that he is
king now?”

 “Yes, it is true. His
father died in battle. I......I spoke to him just before the end.”

 “You forgave him,
didn’t you?”

 “Yes,” he replied,
unsurprised by her perception. “For a moment I tried to hold on to my sense of
grievance. It is not easy to cast off the habits of twenty years - but it would
not do. I looked into the eyes of the dying man and could not deny him the
peace he craved. Yet, as a result of that act of forgiveness, in a strange way,
the one who has found peace is me.”

 “You have finally let
go of the past?”

 “In all but one respect
- I will kill the Great-turog if I find him.”

 When he had gone,
Elorin changed out of her blue dress and donned tunic and breeches once more,
then catching up her bow and a quiver full of arrows, she headed towards the
ramparts with the determination to account for a few of the Turog herself.

 By the time Celedorn
had assured himself that the wounded amongst his men were being attended to, it
was getting dark as he made his way down the winding streets towards the gate.
Many townspeople were in the streets and it was clear that they recognised him.
He received some looks of gratitude, but many more of suspicion - for old ideas
die hard - but no one attempted to detain him.

 He found Sarrick
leaning on the parapet of the bastion by the gate. He turned when he heard
Celedorn’s footsteps and peered into the darkness.

 “Who is that?”

 “Celedorn,” was the
reply, as the former brigand could not yet accustom himself to his new title.

 Sarrick grunted in
reply. “You will be pleased to hear that the bridge has gone. We had prepared
against this eventuality by partly undermining it. Under cover of constant fire
from the walls, the job was completed. The Turog have forded the river upstream
of us and are now encamped on both banks. It appears, cousin, that we are
surrounded.”

 Celedorn leaned his
elbows on the wall and stared out into the darkness. Here and there the watch
fires of the enemy twinkled like fireflies in the otherwise unbroken darkness.
After the tumult of battle, the night seemed unusually quiet. He could hear the
chuckle of the river as it swept past the walls far below and the lonely call
of some nightbird. Occasionally the faint clatter of cooking pots carried
across the water from the Turog encampment.

 “What are they up to?”
he asked, more of himself than Sarrick.

 “I don’t know. They
broke off the attack at dusk, and since then nothing much has happened. I
dislike it when they are quiet - it usually means they are plotting something.”

 “I agree, but let us
hope they leave us alone for tonight because the men badly need some rest.” He
looked along the rows of watchful sentries. “Where is Andar.....the King?”

 “He is keeping vigil
over our father’s body in the throne room. It is the custom that he stay with
him until dawn. I think he would appreciate your company for a while. In any
event, there is nothing for you to do here.” As Celedorn turned to go, he
added: “By the way, your wife does you credit.”

 “Oh?”

 “Indeed. I had no idea
that she was so deadly accurate with the bow. She helped give covering fire for
the men working on the bridge, and it would appear that she seldom misses what
she aims at. She certainly doesn’t lack for nerve.”

 Celedorn raised his
eyes heavenward. “Sarrick,” he said feelingly, “you have no idea.”

 He heard the Prince’s
crack of laughter as he descended the steps into the town.

  King Tharin was lying
in state in the throne room. His armour and bloodstained clothes had been
removed and he was dressed in robes of crimson velvet with a gold circlet upon
his brow. In death, his face looked noble and serene, revealing a likeness to
his eldest son that had not always been apparent in life. At each corner of the
funeral bier were tall, golden stands shaped like lilies, each holding a
flaming torch. They were flanked by guards in full ceremonial armour who stood
silently to attention, their long spears held stiffly in their hands. The
flames cast their flickering light on the gleaming floor, on the dark and empty
throne, on the glittering gold of the king’s circlet. They made deep,
mysterious shadows in the corners that silently danced and writhed. At the
king’s head stood Andarion, also dressed in royal crimson. Both his hands were
folded around the hilt of his sword and the point rested on the floor between
his feet. His head was slightly bowed.

 Celedorn stood in the
doorway, uncertain whether to advance any further or not, reluctant to intrude
on the scene of grief; but when Andarion saw him, he left his position and came
towards him with a questioning look. 

 “All is quiet,”
murmured Celedorn in response to the look. “They have crossed the river but so
far, nothing else has happened.” He paused, and a little awkwardly said: “I
fear you will be given little time to mourn him, Andar.......Sire.”

 “When we are alone, it
is always Andarion. I told you that when we crossed the Harnor, our friendship
would not change and I keep to my word. If anything, it has become stronger for
I did not expect such magnanimity from you towards my father.” He sighed. “And
now? Well, now I am king of a country that may not survive beyond tomorrow. I
only hope that when my time comes, I die as bravely as my father.” He glanced
towards the still figure on the bier. “How strangely does fate overset all our
plans. Triana may never be my wife, and Ravenshold may never see another Lord
of Westrin. Be grateful for the time that you and Elorin have had together.”

 Celedorn checked the
reassuring words that rose to his lips, realising their futility, realising
that what Andarion said could not be denied.

 “Do you wish me to stay
with you?” he asked instead.

 “No. I must spend this
last night alone with my father. Go back to Elorin and get some rest. I fear we
may be very busy tomorrow.”

 Celedorn nodded and
stepping back a pace, bowed slightly to him before leaving.

 But that night he could
not sleep. He lay on his back staring into the darkness, Elorin curled up by
his side, going over and over in his mind the events that had taken place on
the Hill of the Seven Crowns; repeating to himself all that he had been told,
and wondering about all that he had not.

 
Payment shall be
delayed until the task you were born to perform has been completed.

 
He had not been told what that task was, but he felt
in his heart that the time for its fulfilment was drawing closer.

 For two days the Turog
did nothing. They waited in their camps on either side of the city and made no
attempt to attack it.

 At first, the King was
grateful for the respite but soon their inactivity began to fray at his nerves.
Observation from the city’s walls revealed that there was much sharpening of
weapons going on and much activity around the black tents, but it was Celedorn
who first pointed out that there were fewer of them than there should have
been. As he watched, he became convinced that the activity was a sham, designed
to convince the Eskendrians that all their enemies were still present in the
camp when in fact they were elsewhere.

 Then, at dawn on the
third day, the reason for such strategy became clear - the first pale threads
of light revealed a river shrunken within its banks.

 Sarrick, leaning
anxiously over the wall, was appalled to discover that Celedorn’s prediction
had proved to be correct. As the cool sun of autumn rose and the morning wore
on, the remaining pools of water left in hollows in the riverbed, began to
dwindle, draining quietly but inexorably away to leave sheets of drying mud,
plastered with long, green weed and some gasping fish caught by surprise by the
unexpected removal of their habitat.

 Celedorn wasted no time
in useless recriminations but flung himself into the frantic preparations to
deal with the inevitable assault on the walls. Long pikes were brought up to
the battlements to fend off scaling ladders. Cauldrons of oil had fires lit
under them at intervals along the walls, and the gates were triple braced. The townspeople,
who were not directly involved in helping the military, were ordered to stay in
their homes.

 Elorin and Relisar
appeared on the walls about noon, as chance would have it, just as the Turog
army began to mass for the attack. They both instantly incurred Sarrick’s
displeasure. His tension found relief by rounding first on Relisar.

 “What are you doing
here? Unless you are here to produce some sort of spell that will strike dead a
thousand Turog, then you are only in the way.”

 “You know very well
that I will not use my abilities to kill,” replied Relisar with unfortunate
piety.

 Uttering a sound of
disgust, Sarrick turned his attention to Elorin. “It is far too dangerous for
you to be up here. If I read the signs correctly, we are about to be bombarded.”

 She looked at him
coldly. “I will not hide in some corner until the Turog come to get me. If I
can bring down just one of them, then I will deem it to have been worth the
risk. I would rather die here on these walls, than be caught like a rat in the
town.”

 Sarrick, secretly
impressed, said gruffly: “I wasn’t thinking about you, I was thinking about
myself. If anything happens to you, I need not fear the Turog, for your husband
will cut out my liver.”

 She laughed, her flash
of anger extinguished. “Where is he?”

 “He and my brother are
at the bastion by the gate. However, if you want to help, we could make most
use of your skill with the bow here, where the walls are lowest. Your first
priority will be to pick off any Turog trying to raise a scaling ladder. Ask
the quartermaster for more arrows.” He smiled with a suddenly charming smile.
“I know you won’t waste them.”

 When Sarrick had moved
away, Relisar, who had no intention of letting the Prince dislodge him, leaned
his elbows on the parapet and watched the preparations below. The day had
become cloudy and dull, with a chill wind blowing off the Westrin Mountains. It
seemed to render everything a monochrome grey: the walls of the city, the bare
trees, even the plain below seemed the colour of a shield. Against the metallic
background, the black swarms of Turog manoeuvred. Legion after legion in their
sable armour, bristling with wicked spikes, began to move with remorseless
precision into attack position on the east bank of the river. Amongst their
ranks, imperfectly concealed, were dozens of scaling ladders, and grappling
hooks shaped like barbarous claws. Siege mantlets were not in evidence as,
thankfully, the river mud was too boggy to support them, but catapults loaded
with heavy stones were already in position to bombard the walls. As he watched,
a detachment of Red Turog, complete with a heavy, iron-shod battering ram,
formed up on the bank opposite the gate.

  Several Great-turog
could be seen striding about, directing the lesser ones with shouts and snarls
and occasionally with the help of their long whips. One, in particular, halted
on the bank opposite Relisar and looked up at the battlements with its
sulphurous eyes. For a long moment its glance travelled along the walls before
coming to rest on Relisar. Even from the height of the walls, it was a
formidable creature. It stood over seven feet high, with breadth of shoulder to
match. Its black breastplate covered its deep chest, but its arms were
unprotected, exposing powerful muscles under its grey skin. On its wrists it
wore broad steel bands and in its hand it gripped a heavy sword of human
design, but made in proportion to its height. Even from a distance, Relisar
felt its strength of will and its desire to dominate. He attempted to pit his
will against it, but it just laughed mockingly, showing its pointed fangs, and
strode away.

 Just then, Sarrick’s
voice, raised to a thunderous roar, carried clearly along the battlements.

 
“Take cover!”

  Relisar had just time
to observe some ominous activity around the catapults before Elorin caught a
fistful of his robe and dragged him down behind the wall.

 Scarcely had they hit
the flags, than with a terrifying howl, the first projectile hurtled over their
heads and slammed into some of the houses in the city.

 Sarrick had crawled
along behind the wall and was now near to them. “They are finding the range,”
he growled with impotent anger. “A few more shots and they will have it.”

 Barrages of heavy
stones were flung screaming like fiends at them. Some overshot into the city,
wreaking destruction amongst the houses, some fell short with dull thuds into
the mud of the river bed, but many more began to strike the walls with such
force that the flags beneath them began to tremble with the impact.

 “Is there nothing we
can do to stop them?” shouted Relisar, his hands over his ears.

 “Nothing,” replied
Sarrick bitterly. “The catapults are out of range of our arrows. If we were
stronger, I would try a sortie to capture them, but we can’t spare the men for that.
We must trust that those who built Addania’s walls a thousand years ago knew
their business.”