The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (71 page)

 Then in a rich,
resonant voice he called: 

 
“Serrianth
b’Ethmor, Celedorn - I summon you whom the world knows, yet knows not.

    I call
forth Berendore – who had been forsaken. Who had died and yet lives.

   Zardes-kur -
I command you, whom your enemies fear, to be with us in our time of need.

   Serrianth
b’Ethmor, Erren-dar - in accordance with the prophesy of the Book of Light, I
summon you to appear, Wielder of the Sword of Flame!”

 Every single living
soul in the two armies held their breath - but absolutely nothing happened.

 Gorth tilted back his
head and began to laugh. Soon the laughter spread, until all the Turog army was
hooting and cackling. The Eskendrians stood in devastated silence. The derisory
laughter issuing from the Turog reached a crescendo, their roars echoing round
the plain.

 But Relisar was not
daunted. In the same loud voice he called: “Celedorn,
draw your sword
!”

 Without the slightest
hesitation, Celedorn reached his right hand across to his scabbard and in a
single swift movement, swept his sword from its housing.

 A gasp went up from the
Eskendrian army. For a brief but unmistakable moment, an incredibly intense
blue flame flickered and burned along the edges of the blade.

 “He was right all
along,” whispered the King in an awed voice. “You
are
Erren-dar.”

 As they watched, the
flame faded and vanished from the blade, leaving the sword gleaming with its
usual cold, razor-sharp steel.

 The laughter from the
Turog had completely died away to be replaced by murmurs of unease: but Gorth
was not impressed.

 “It matters not. You
are but a man and therefore mortal. Call yourself Erren-dar if you will, you
can have it written on your tombstone.”

 Celedorn removed his
cloak and scabbard and handed them to Andarion. “You and Prince Sarrick must
withdraw. I have unfinished business with this creature.”

 Looking at his resolute
expression, Andarion merely said: “
Chalcoria ferrenore, Erren-dar
.”  

  “What did he say?” Triana
whispered to Relisar.

 “He said, ‘may the
chalice flower protect you, Erren-dar’.”

 A murmur, like the
susurration of the sea, rippled around the two armies when they saw the King
withdraw, and there was much clinking of armour as everyone, human and Turog,
craned their necks to see.

 Gorth slowly drew his
sword and cast the scabbard to one side.

 “I should have killed
you twenty years ago,” he hissed between his sharp fangs.

 “Yes,” Celedorn
unexpectedly agreed, “you should have. Now your omission comes back to haunt
you, for I will not rest until you are dead.”

 “Brave words!  But
I will defeat you now, as easily as I defeated you then.”

 They began to circle
one another. Celedorn, his eyes sharp with concentration, replied dryly: “I
think you will find that things have changed.”

 It was as well that he
was on his guard, for Gorth, without any warning, attacked, launching such a
powerful blow at him, that had it found its target, the fight would have ended
before it had begun. But his opponent, with the lightning reflexes that had
disconcerted so many of his adversaries, sprang aside and avoiding the blow
entirely, shot his blade in underneath Gorth’s, coming within a hairsbreadth of
wounding him. Gorth started back in the very nick of time, a new respect in his
eyes, but he was not easily flustered, and instantly counter-attacked.

 Andarion, anxiously
watching the fight with his heart in his mouth, realised that although Gorth
relied mainly on his superior strength, he was also cunning, occasionally
feinting in unexpected directions, occasionally trying some trick to disarm
Celedorn. But his opponent fought with the uncanny instinct that Relisar had
previously observed. He watched Gorth’s yellow eyes and anticipated the
direction of each attack. Although he tried to avoid a direct contest of
strength and angled his sword to take some of the power out of the strokes he
was receiving, he nevertheless found himself on the receiving end of many blows
of bone-shattering strength. Gorth’s thrusts, he parried with lightning skill,
striking them aside, but many axe-like blows smashed down from above, his enemy
making full use of his superior height - blows that he had no choice but to
block with a fierce upward stroke of his blade that jarred him to the shoulder.

 Celedorn soon realised
that despite his superior speed, he was losing ground. Step by step, he was being
forced back towards the Eskendrian lines. Step by step, he retreated before the
relentless hammer-blows. But Gorth, for all the punishment he was inflicting,
could not break through that unwavering guard, nor did the sword of the Old
Kingdom break or even notch under the strain. Its blade, looking slender beside
Gorth’s heavy weapon, hissed through the air, sharp enough to split gossamer.

 Sweat stood on
Celedorn’s forehead, but not for an instant did his determination falter. In
his mind, scenes from that day so long ago that had embittered his life,
flashed into his thoughts, not distracting him, but honing his desire to kill.
He could see every country that he and Dorgan had ever visited. The tall reeds
of the marshlands. The burning sands of the Great Desert. He remembered
everything he had been taught about the sword. Every cunning device, every
skilful advantage. Then into his head once more rang his sister’s screams.

 A thrust of cold fury
shot through him, and taking a powerful double-handed grip on the hilt, he
flashed his blade upwards with such speed and power that Gorth’s weapon was
struck aside and involuntarily he retreated a pace.

 A collective gasp of
disbelief went up from the Turog army.

 Celedorn defended no
longer, but moved to the attack, wrenching the initiative from Gorth by sheer
strength of will.

 He moved with such
speed, such fluid grace, that those watching him could hardly follow his sword.
He seemed to know every move Gorth intended to make before he made it, and not
only countered it but turned it to his advantage. Gorth’s heavy style of
fighting was being used against him, for Celedorn was using his speed to
disengage, leaving his opponent unbalanced. Then swiftly, before he could
regain his poise, the attack was delivered.

 The first horrible
seeds of doubt began to sprout in Gorth’s mind, driving him to even greater
exertion.

 The swords clashed and
rang in the unnatural stillness. Not a soul present could drag their eyes away
from the contest taking place before them.

 Elorin, fear and hope
battling within her, was barely breathing and was squeezing Relisar’s arm in an
exceedingly painful grip that he was not even aware of.

 Sarrick’s jaw had
dropped open long ago and he had not even the presence of mind to close it, so
mesmerised was he.

 But Gorth was by no
means finished. The blades crossed with a heavy clash. Rather than allow Gorth
to throw him back, using his superior weight, Celedorn circled his blade
underneath his opponent’s and suddenly disengaged, but the Turog had
anticipated the move and slashed forward with a rapid thrust. Celedorn stepped
aside smartly, but was not quite quick enough. The blade ripped through his
left sleeve. Instantly the white linen was splashed with a stain of red.

 Gorth let out a howl of
triumph that was echoed by the watching Turog, who instantly began to beat
their weapons against their shields in encouragement. The whole plain
reverberated with the din.

 “You see,” Gorth
panted, “you are as easy to defeat as your father.”

 “You are not fit to
speak of my father,” replied Celedorn between his teeth.

 His blade shot towards
Gorth in a sideways slice that was so fast, that the point had ripped across
the shoulder of Gorth’s tunic before he could respond. The rhythmic crash of
weapons faltered and died. Blood poured in a slick, shiny stream down the
Great-turog’s leather tunic. He stepped back, but not before his relentless
opponent had wounded him again on the arm.

 Step by step, he began
to retreat before the incredible speed and viciousness of the assault. Each
wickedly accurate blow was seemingly faster and more powerful than the last.
Again and again the blade of the Old Kingdom found its mark, until Gorth was
running with blood from a dozen wounds. The last wound happened when the point of
Celedorn’s sword raked across his adversary’s face, splitting open his cheek.
Gorth fell to one knee, weakened and in pain. He looked up with his yellow
eyes, knowing the end had come.

 “Have you no mercy?”

 “For you? None,” was
the implacable reply. Then gripping his sword with both hands, Celedorn drove
it with all his strength into his enemy’s chest.

 For a moment suspended
in time, the two froze together, joined by Celedorn’s sword, then he jerked his
blade free and stepped back, his chest heaving.

 Gorth remained kneeling
before him, staring upwards, as slowly the light faded from his yellow eyes.
Then, without a word, he fell with a crash to the ground.

 The event was greeted
by an utterly stunned silence. The two armies stared in disbelief at the fallen
Turog.

 Then Sarrick, whose
eyes had left Celedorn for a moment to travel to the Turog horde beyond him,
urgently gripped his brother’s arm.

 “Beware, Andarion. They
are not going to honour their word. They are preparing to attack.”

 Even as Andarion turned
to shout orders to his men, Relisar raised his hand to check him.

 “I think,” said he
quietly, “you will find that they will be
made
to keep their word.”

 As he finished
speaking, his prediction was fulfilled in a strange and dreadful way.

 The body of the
Great-turog lying at Celedorn’s feet, simply melted away like morning mist
until all that was left was his mighty sword lying on the grass where it had
fallen from his hand.

 The waiting black
hordes began to shriek their hideous battle-cries and gathered up their weapons
to charge the waiting Eskendrian forces, prepared to slaughter and burn their
way into the city. The Eskendrians braced themselves for the impact, raising
shields and drawing swords, but as the Turog began to charge across the plain,
they too began to vanish. One by one weapons began to fall to the ground,
deprived of hands to hold them. Rank by rank, the black masses began to
evaporate like a nightmare upon waking. Division by division they were snatched
from the face of the earth, until soon all that remained were scattered heaps
of black armour and weapons. Soon the plain facing the Eskendrians was utterly
empty of life.

 The lone standard of
the Destroyer, still planted in the earth, flapped futilely like the forlorn
cause it now represented. The King strode forward and pulling the standard out
of the ground, snapped the wooden staff across his knee.

 As if his action broke
a spell, a thunderous cheer went up from the Eskendrian army, a cheer that
echoed and swelled though the divisions until it reached the city.

 Andarion turned to his
cousin, words of congratulation on his lips, but the words died unborn, for he
saw that Celedorn had turned deathly white. Even as he watched, he sank to his
knees on the ground as if he no longer had the strength to stand.

 Elorin and Relisar
darted forward. The cheering grew ragged and died away as the soldiers began to
realise that something was wrong.

 “What is it?” cried
Elorin desperately. “What is wrong? Is it your wound?”

 Celedorn slowly shook
his head. “No, it’s only a scratch.”

 “Then what? Why do you
look so white? Tell me!”

 Relisar bent towards
the kneeling man. “It is time, is it not? Time for repayment of the debt?”

 Celedorn looked up at
him. “My task has been completed. Payment can no longer be postponed.”

 Elorin stared at him
distractedly. “Payment? Debt? What debt?”

 It was Relisar who
answered her. “On the Hill of the Seven Crowns, Celedorn offered his life in
exchange for the chalice flower that would save yours.”

 “No!” Elorin cried. “
No
!
Celedorn, tell me it is not true? Do not leave me! Not now! I beg you, do not
leave me!”

 “I gave my word,
Elorin,” Celedorn replied faintly. “The debt must be paid. I could not leave
your soul in the darkness in which it had been imprisoned. I know that if our
positions had been reversed, you would have done the same.”

 Huge tears spilled over
Elorin’s lashes and began to course down her cheeks.

 Relisar, moved with
compassion for them, gently placed his hand on Celedorn’s shoulder and looked
deep into his eyes. “I have the gift of percipience, you know, my dear boy, a
little erratic perhaps, but it is mine and I tell you this; if you live, a year
from now, before the leaves again begin to turn golden and fall from the bough,
a son will be born to you and Elorin. You will become a strong and just Lord of
Westrin, restoring the barony to order and prosperity, using your strength to
guard and protect its people. Ravenshold will no longer be a bleak fortress,
haunted by unhappy memories, but will become instead a home, a place of safety
where children will play once more. Yet, if you are not alive to do these
things, they will never happen. If you are not alive a few months from now to
father your son, he will never be born and the line of Westrin will end. You
are young, with so much ahead of you, so much to live for. I, on the other
hand, am an old man. I have seen many things in my life. Things that have given
me joy, like the love between you and Elorin, and, alas, many things that have
given me sadness. I have lived long enough to see my gifts vindicated, my
prediction come true, my hopes fulfilled. I have lived to see Erren-dar defeat
the servant of the Destroyer and the future of my people secured.”