The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (17 page)

 Eimer bent forward, grasping his knees, still a little out
of breath.

 “Remind me next time I see Pevorion, to punch him on the
nose.
Too few Turog to bother
us!
Ha! Can the man not count?”

But Sareth didn’t smile, instead, looking worried, she tried
to return his sword to him.

 “I think we should attempt to find Vesarion, brother. I’m
concerned that he might be in trouble. You know that Bethro will be of no help
to him, in fact, quite the reverse.”

 Eimer’s smile faded. “Keep the sword, Sareth. I’ve a
feeling you might need it.” He held up the one he had taken from his slain
enemy. “It’s quite a good weapon actually, so I suppose it must have thieved it
from someone. By the way, accept my compliments – Parrick would be very proud.”

 Still she didn’t smile in response but tugged urgently at
his sleeve.

 “We must find them, Eimer. We have no horses and night will
be upon us in an hour or so. I’m sure you don’t need to be Ferron to follow the
trail of five Turog in pursuit of Bethro. It’s just that I’m not sure that
Vesarion could handle all five by himself. So we must hurry.”

 “What about the guards?” Iska asked.

 “We can’t follow everyone,” Eimer replied shortly. “Ferron
and the guards will have to fend for themselves.”

 The dead guard provided a scabbard for Sareth’s borrowed
sword, but as there was nothing they could do for him and time was pressing,
they left him where he was, his head resting on the mossy ground as if merely
asleep, and hurried into the forest following a trail that even a blind man
could not have missed.

 For once Bethro and Vesarion were of the same opinion –
that with the departure of the Turog their situation had only marginally improved.
Vesarion began craning his neck, inspecting the slope for a means of returning
to the top, and was forced to admit defeat.

 “What do we do?” Bethro asked again in a panicky voice.

 “We can’t climb up,” Vesarion said, not mincing matters.
“The scree is too loose and the trees and bushes too sparse to offer hope.” He
neglected to mention that he had noticed something that Bethro was not aware
of. The sapling that the terrified librarian was clinging to was beginning to
give up the struggle. A couple of tendrils of root had rather ominously already
broken loose.

 “It will be dark soon,” resumed Vesarion, “so whatever we
are going to do, we’ll have to do it soon. In actual fact, we have only one
option. If we cannot go up, we must go down.”

 “No!” squeaked Bethro.

 “We have no choice. Now, I am going to lower myself down
the slope until I reach the edge of the overhang and have a look at what there
is below it.”

 “Don’t leave me!”

 Vesarion gave short shrift to Bethro’s histrionics.
“Nonsense. Pull yourself together!”

 Spotting some more vegetation a little below him and to the
right, Vesarion gauged his trajectory carefully and releasing his hold on the pine
tree, slithered down the scree in a cloud of dust and came to a halt amongst
some bushes. Proceeding from bush to bush, he managed to descend the overhang
until he was able to peer over the edge at the drop below. After a moment’s
scrutiny, he called up to Bethro: “It’s not as bad as it looks from above.
There is a ledge running beneath the overhang and I think it might be possible
to climb down to the river from there. The rock face is much cracked and riven,
so it offers many handholds. Now, try to follow the same route that I did and
let go of the bush.”

 But if he thought that Bethro was going to let go of the
one thing in the world that was preventing him from plunging over the cliff, he
was much mistaken.

 A lengthy and pungent argument ensued, which only ended
when Vesarion threatened to descend the cliff by himself and leave Bethro where
he was.

 A few moments later Bethro arrived at the edge of the
overhang, complete with a dust cloud and a miniature landslide of stones.
Acutely aware that darkness was rapidly descending, Vesarion found some
handholds in a spur of exposed rock and lowered himself onto the ledge,
thankful, as he hung by his hands, that he had a good head for heights. With a
little assistance and a lot of discussion, the portly librarian succeeded in
doing likewise and painfully slowly, working from handhold to handhold, the
mismatched duo descended the rocky sides of the gully. As they did so, they
left behind the dry scree and sun-baked grey rocks and began to enter the
shadow of the ravine where the sun seldom trespassed. The rocks grew cool and
damp. Soft green lichens began to appear, making the handholds a little
treacherous. Soon they were descending amongst hart’s tongue ferns and clumps
of violets, sprouting from mossy crevices, increasing in luxuriance as the
river bed approached. When they finally reached the pebbly ground beside the
river, Bethro fell on his face in exhaustion and lay like one dead.

 Vesarion, covered in dust and with hands grazed from the
scree, crossed the pebbles and kneeling beside the river, gratefully splashed
his face and hands with the cold, crystal-clear water. When he stood up, he
took stock of his surroundings. In the cool depths of the gorge, the lavender
light of evening was already falling, soft and secretive, laced with the
evening call of birds and the pleasant chuckle of the river as it tumbled over
mossy stones. The overhang above them hid much of the forest from view, but it
could be seen that the tops of the trees were still alight with the last rays
of the setting sun. He looked downstream to discover that the green-skinned
walls of the ravine drew together, giving a dark, tunnel-like effect, its
narrow confines fully occupied by the river. Upstream seemed to offer more
possibilities, as the walls remained further apart, accommodating not only the
river but a broad margin of rounded pebbles. He couldn’t see any great distance
ahead because the narrow passage twisted and turned, cutting off vision after
about a stone’s throw, but it was worth a try.

 Vesarion crossed to his companion and shook him by the
shoulder.

 “Come, Bethro, we will follow the ravine upstream in the
hope that we can find somewhere to climb out and return to the forest above. We
must try to retrace our steps back to the clearing where we were ambushed and
see if we can discover what happened to the others.”

 With a groan, reluctantly Bethro sat up and became aware of
where he was. “It’s nearly dark.”

 “Yes.”

 “What do we eat?”

 For the first time Vesarion’s lips twitched in amusement.
“Nothing,” he declared baldly, taking a certain perverse pleasure in the
announcement.

 Bethro groaned again.

 “Look on the bright side,” his tormentor added, “there’s
plenty of water. I think we should lose no time in moving away from this spot
because I’m not sure what conclusion the Turog came to when they saw we had
gone over the cliff. So, on your feet, please.”

 Bethro, becoming inured to Vesarion’s imperious ways,
struggled to his feet obediently.

 “I’m tired,” he remarked glumly.

 His companion, who had chased fugitives, fought off Turog,
been pursued through the forest, dragged over a cliff and nearly been cut in
half by his own belt, resisted the temptation to inform Bethro that he, too,
had experienced better days.

 It was Sareth who had the party’s first piece of luck since
the ambush. Eimer had been leading them through the forest on the trail of
their missing companions, although in truth it hardly merited his tracking
abilities. A swathe of undergrowth had been flattened by the stampeding Turog
that even Bethro could have followed. It therefore surprised both Sareth and Iska
that Eimer kept stopping every so often to search the surrounding forest with
his eyes.

 Finally, Iska could stand it no longer. “What is it?” she
demanded. “The trail is perfectly clear.”

 Eimer held up his hand to silence her and replied in a low
voice: “I’m not certain, but I think we are being followed. Twice I thought I
glimpsed something between the trees.”

 “Turog?” Sareth  asked in a whisper.

 “Possibly. I’m not sure. Whatever it is, it’s keeping its
distance for now.”

 But Eimer’s warning caused Sareth to increase her vigilance
and it was this which led to her lucky discovery. Advancing a little ahead of
Eimer, she suddenly froze and pointed silently amongst the trees to the west.
There, grazing unconcernedly on a patch of sparse grass, were two of the
horses, their reins trailing on the ground.

 “Don’t startle them,” breathed Sareth. “One is my horse and
the other is Ferron’s.”

 She made a soft clicking sound with her tongue and the
heads of both horses jerked up. They were clearly wary after their fright but
when Sareth repeated the noise, her own horse appeared to recognise her and
began to amble in her direction, followed a little uncertainly, by its fellow.
Soon its velvety muzzle was snuffling at her hand, looking for treats. Eimer,
who had caught the bridle of the other horse, said: “Of all the horses that we
could have found, Ferron’s is the best, because not only is it carrying a fair
amount of provisions but it has his crossbow still attached to the saddle.”

 The discovery enabled their search to progress more
swiftly. Eimer took Ferron’s horse while his two companions doubled up on
Sareth’s. Nevertheless, it was almost dark by the time they arrived at the edge
of the ravine. Eimer dismounted and peered over, trying to pierce the gloom that
had gathered in the depths of the gorge. After questing about, examining the
scuff marks along the rim, he returned to Sareth who was anxiously awaiting his
verdict.

 “Clearly someone, or something, went over the edge here,
and the bad new is that I think it was our friends. Bethro’s trail, which I
have been following as clear as daylight, stops here. There are signs that the
Turog also arrived and examined the cliff top but they seem to have gone off in
that direction,” he said, pointing downstream. “It’s difficult to be sure in
this light, but I can see no bodies in the gully, so whatever happened, it
looks like they survived.” He saw Sareth let out a breath of relief. “If they
did descend into the ravine,” he continued, “they will be trying to find somewhere
to climb out, and from the looks of it, they may have to travel some distance.”

 Iska glanced at the sky, now the deep sapphire blue of
approaching night. “We’re not going to find them in the darkness.”

 “No. We must find a place to camp for the night and resume
our search in the morning.”

 “By camp, you mean hard ground and no fire, I take it?”
returned Sareth dryly.

 Eimer grinned. “And one of us on guard at all times – so
very little sleep either.”

 Iska, who was already beginning to gain a fair insight into
the Prince’s character, added mischievously: “I think he’s beginning to enjoy
this.”

 But Sareth held her brother’s eyes a moment longer. “You’re
sure, Eimer?” she asked quietly.

 He looked up at her, all laughter gone from his face. For a
moment he was tempted to lie to her in order to put her fears to rest, but in
the end, honesty won.

 “I cannot be completely sure,” he replied gravely. “The
light was poor and my view of the ravine floor limited, but I swear to you that
I did not see any bodies.”

 When Sareth had dismounted and moved a short distance away,
he caught Iska looking at him questioningly.

 “Sareth and Vesarion are betrothed,” he explained. “Not a
love-match, you understand, but a marriage of convenience, however, Vesarion
was brought up with us when his parents died and he is an old friend.”

 “When we find them, Eimer, we must proceed with all haste
to Adamant to recover the sword. I will go myself if I must, but I hope that
you and the others will come, for sometimes I feel that this is a task that is
too much for me on my own. We must rescue the sword, no matter what the cost.”

 Eimer looked into those amber eyes, gazing directly into
his with great earnestness and remembering the warning given to him by the
wooden head, made a sudden decision.

 “You won’t have to deal with this alone, Iska. No matter
what the others decide to do, I will come with you.”

 Sareth could not sleep that night, and her restlessness had
nothing to do with either the hardness of the ground or the possible presence
of the Turog. She was thinking about Vesarion, wondering where he was and if he
was safe. She had overheard her brother’s remark to Iska about her betrothal
and realised that he had no idea that, at least on her part, it was not
entirely true. He thought she had agreed to the engagement to get away from Enrick
and as a means of protecting Vesarion from whatever threat Enrick posed to him,
but that was only partly true – for Sareth had loved Vesarion since she was a
child; since the day Enrick, using the advantage of being so much older than
she, had tormented her until he had reduced her to tears. Vesarion, coming
unexpectedly on the scene had not hesitated but had waded into the attack,
flooring the Crown Prince with one well-delivered punch. When Enrick had fled
to the King to report this misdemeanour, Vesarion had picked up the little girl
in his arms and dried her tears, completely unaware that he had inspired a
devotion that would last through many lonely years. Following his departure
from Addania at the age of eighteen to take his rightful place as Lord of
Westrin, his visits to the capital had grown more and more rare. Sareth
treasured them like a miser hoarding coins, always hoping for a kind look or
some acknowledgement that her existence mattered to him, but although he was
always pleasant and polite to her, he was impersonal, showing no particular
desire to be in her company.

 She knew that she could have dealt with Enrick’s threat by
alerting Vesarion. He would have been safe in Ravenshold, but that would remove
him from her once again – possibly for a very long time, particularly if a
civil war had broken out as a result. So instead she had entered into the
engagement, convincing herself that it was a matter of duty. Yet, the truth was
far removed from this. She had thought that by spending time with him, their
relationship might ripen; that affection might grow between them, but their
journey was proving quite the reverse. Far from admiring her independence, it
appeared to irritate him and far from seeking her company, he had largely
ignored her. Sareth’s heart had been sore for a long time but a stubborn little
flicker of hope had kept her waiting for him. Now the cold wind of despair blew
its icy breath upon her ever more strongly.