The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (19 page)

 “Did you see what it was?”

 “No. But whatever it is, it appears to be alone.”

 All three companions were now watchful, every sense
heightened, unsure what they were dealing with, or how hostile it was.

 It was therefore with a sense of shock, that upon cresting
a slight rise, they saw a short distance ahead of them a horse tethered to a
tree.

 They halted, staring at it in soundless disbelief for a
moment, before Sareth made a discovery that made her grasp her brother’s
sleeve.

 “Eimer,” she whispered urgently. “Is that not Vesarion’s
mare?”

 He looked more closely at the chestnut horse with the
distinctive white blaze down its nose. “I believe you are right,” he
acknowledged softly. “But how does it come to be tethered to that tree? The
last time I saw it, it was bolting off into the woods in terror, looking as if
it wouldn’t stop until it got to Addania. So how can this be possible? This
smells like a trap to me.”

 “What do we do?” Sareth asked.

 “I’ll dismount and go to investigate.” He spoke over his
shoulder to his passenger. “Iska, get in the saddle as soon as I’m down and if
there is any sign of trouble, the two of you take off just as fast as you can –
and no arguments. You are not to wait for me or try to help if it turns our
that this horse has been put there as bait by the Turog.”

 Sareth and Iska both nodded agreement but they exchanged
significant glances with one another when the Prince’s back was turned.

 Eimer slid from the saddle and drew his sword. Instead of
approaching the horse directly, he circled around through the trees, moving
silently, scrutinising the branches above him to detect signs of an ambush.

 But nothing moved. The horse seemed relaxed, tugging a
little at its tether now and then but not exhibiting the alarm that close proximity
of the Turog would have engendered.

 As silently and warily as a wood spirit, Eimer drew closer.

 Still nothing moved. The horse watched him approach, its
ears pricked forward, its eyes intelligent.

 “If only you could talk,” breathed Eimer as he laid his
hand gently on it neck, every nerve alert for attack. But still nothing
happened.

 The saddle and all of Vesarion’s belongings seemed intact.
Nothing appeared to have been disturbed or tampered with.

 “In fact,” he continued conversing with the horse, “if it
were not for the fact that someone or something tethered you to this tree, I
would call this a happy discovery.”

 He turned to the two women, anxiously watching, and
shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he was at a loss to explain the
situation. As they rode forward to join him, Iska was still looking over her
shoulder, checking for movement.

 “This is unsettling,” she said to Eimer.

 “To say the least,” he agreed. “There appears to be no
ambush for the present, but this horse was put here in our path for a reason.
We were meant to discover it and I cannot see that any good will come of it.”

 “Vesarion could not have found it, could he?” asked Iska.

 “Unless Vesarion has acquired the powers of a mountain goat,
he and Bethro are still trapped in that ravine. No, I would guess that whatever
has been following us has done this, which means that not only has it been
watching us but it is now trying to manipulate us – something I do not care for
at all.”

 “Are you going to leave the horse?” asked Sareth.

 “No. I’ll take it because we need it, but I’m not very easy
in my mind about it.”

 Eimer unhitched the horse and mounted it, then promptly got
off again.

 “What is it?”

 He chuckled. “Clearly no one has ridden this horse since
Vesarion, because the stirrups are too long for me.” He adjusted the straps.
“At least now we can get up some speed without the risk of the pillion falling
off.”  He grinned at Iska, who couldn’t resist smiling back. “Now, let’s get
out of here.”

 For two long, wearisome days during which they had nothing
to eat other than a few small trout,  Vesarion and Bethro followed the edge of
the ravine northwards as it cut like a wound into the high moorland. Apart from
the occasional copse of rather leggy fir trees, the terrain was open, a rolling
plateau of heather and bracken, occasionally interspersed by hidden bogs
masquerading as innocent clearings of grass and moss. Unexpectedly, it was
Vesarion who first fell foul of these obstacles. Taking the lead as always, he
was striding through the heather, keeping one eye on the edge of the ravine,
when without warning he plunged into a peaty morass up to his knees. At first,
not taking the event very seriously, he tried to turn round to regain firm ground
but the bog had a deceptively strong grip on him and with a revolting glooping
noise, he sank even further. Bethro, standing on the last firm tussock of
grass, did what Bethro always did on such situations – he panicked.

 “What do I do?”  he cried, distractedly wringing his hands.
“What do I do?”

 Vesarion, who had stopped struggling, realising that it
only made matters worse, said in a voice of enforced calm: “Take off you belt,
Bethro, and toss the end to me. You are going to have to pull me out and I
can’t give you much help because there is nothing firm under my feet at all.
You will have to use your weight as a counterbalance.”

 But Bethro was still teetering around on the only clump of
grass he had identified as being secure. “The edges of this swamp are not
clear,” he wailed. “What if I fall in too?”

 “On the whole,” replied Vesarion dryly, “it would be better
if you didn’t.”

 Brought up short by the unexpectedly humorous reply, Bethro
steadied himself. Obediently, he unloosed his belt, which was of considerable
length because of his girth, and tossed the buckled end to Vesarion.
Unfortunately, it fell short on the first throw but on the second, with a lunge
that made him sink even deeper, Vesarion caught the buckle and got a firm grip
on it.

 “Can you put a turn around your wrist?” he asked Bethro.

 “There’s not enough length.”

 “Very well. Just get as good a grip as you can, dig your
heels in to get purchase and lean back. Don’t try to pull with your arms, just
use your weight.”

 Bethro did as he was bid and the belt tensioned but
although he had weight in abundance, his grip was another matter. The belt shot
out of his grasp and he fell flat on his back with an audible thud that knocked
the wind out of him.

 Vesarion, digging deep into reserves of patience he did not
know he possessed, encouraged him to try again, ignoring an uncomfortable
sensation of downward motion around his legs.

 Warming to his role as rescuer, the Keeper of Antiquities
dried his hands on his breeches and got a determined grip on the belt. “I’ll
give it another go,” he declared. “I would have done better if it were not for
the fact that I am weakened with hunger. Now, here we go!”

 True to his word, he got a two-handed grip on the leather
strip and heaved backwards. The belt pulled tight and Vesarion felt the tension
on his shoulder joints as his arms extended to full stretch. At first nothing
much happened. Vesarion, now up to mid-thigh in the bog, barely stirred, but he
was beginning to get an inkling that Bethro had a stubborn streak, because instead
of being discouraged, his rescuer only heaved harder. His face went
plum-coloured with effort and sweat broke on his forehead, but still he heaved
until with a sucking sound, the swamp lost its grip a little, enabling Vesarion
to pull one leg clear up to the knee. Inch by inch Bethro hauled and pulled,
forcing the squelching peat to surrender its victim, until finally a soaked and
filthy Vesarion arrived on the heather beside him, under the impression that
his arms were two feet longer than before they started. Bethro was on his back,
gasping for air like a stranded fish, but inwardly immensely pleased with
himself.

 “Thank you,” said Vesarion, pulling off his boots and
emptying water and mud out of them, “I never thought that I would be glad of the
fact that you are so fond of your food.”

 But the use of that beautiful word ‘food’ caused his gallant
rescuer’s mind to fasten once more on his all-consuming obsession. “Oh, for
something to eat!” he groaned. “Three trout in two days! I shall soon waste
away to a shadow. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is the side of beef
they set before me in that wonderful tavern in Sorne, all juicy and succulent.
And as for the apple pudding, covered in cream!”

 “Stop it!” cried Vesarion, covering his ears. “This is
torture! If you don’t stop talking about food I am going to jump back into that
bog.”

 “We can’t go on like this,” moaned Bethro dispiritedly. “We
are going to starve to death in this wilderness.”

 Vesarion, who had begun to think the same thing himself, at
first could offer no reply, but at last he said: “I see no other choice than to
continue with our plan. We must believe that the others not only survived the
Turog attack but are searching for us. If they are following one side of the
river and we the other, we are bound to meet eventually. This ravine must come
to an end as the river nears its source and then we can cross to the other side
and retrace our steps back to the site of the ambush. We must try to make what
speed we can while our strength holds, for I will not conceal from you that the
lack of food has me worried. I know you must be tired, for I certainly am, but
we must cover as much ground as we can before nightfall, do you understand?”

 Bethro propped himself up on his elbow, as pale now as he
had been red before.

 “Yes,” he replied in a subdued voice. “Forgive me, my lord,
this is all my fault.”

 Vesarion shrugged carelessly and merely remarked: “You need
not be so formal with me, Bethro. We are not at court now. I mean, look at me!
Wet, dirty, unshaven. Not exactly an inspiring sight. Wouldn’t Enrick just love
to see me now.”

 Bethro, who detested Enrick, and was rapidly revising his
initially unfavourable impression of Vesarion, could not suppress a chuckle,
his spirits lifting a little.

 His companion, smiling a little to himself, pulled on his
damp boots and stood up, offering his hand to help his prone rescuer to his
feet.

 “Come, Bethro, we must keep moving.”

 The King’s librarian looked at the extended hand in
surprise, but took it willingly and found himself hauled to his feet by a
strong clasp.

 Although Vesarion did not realise it, at that moment he had
secured for himself a firm friend.

 Their luck, which had been running as persistently against
them as the river current, finally turned that afternoon. Although the cheerful
sunshine had  vanished to be replaced by a blanket of grey clouds that rendered
the hitherto pleasant upland a little bleak, the dismal light revealed a sight
that gladdened their hearts more than any amount of sunshine – the end of the
ravine. After persisting for so many miles, it ended with great suddenness, as
such features often do, at a waterfall. The fine plume of white water cascaded
over a bar of hard, black rock. Above this, the shallow river chattered along
merrily between heather-covered banks, its bed strewn with flat rocks that made
convenient stepping stones for two tired travellers. The trees on the far side had
stopped short at the waterfall but a downward scramble through the bracken,
soon brought them once more into their enigmatic embrace.

 The corrosive pain of hunger reminded Vesarion that any
jubilation they might have felt at finally crossing the ravine was premature,
for there would be even less to eat amongst the trees than by the river. He
looked dubiously at the tall trunks, stiff as sentries, and the dry, barren
undergrowth and knew that he might just as well have been in a desert for all
the hope of sustenance it offered. They were also back in the kind of territory
the Turog most favoured for ambushes and he knew that neither Bethro nor he had
the strength either to out-fight or out-run a serious attack. Glancing
surreptitiously at his companion stumbling along beside him with his head
hanging in fatigue, he knew Bethro could not keep going much longer. The fact
that he was utterly silent, spoke volumes in itself. It was therefore with a
feeling of persecution, that a little further on, he discovered that his plan
of following the edge of the ravine was going to be frustrated. Before them lay
an impenetrable maze of thorny bushes and brambles growing in tangled  profusion
along the very edge of the cliff and for some considerable distance into the
trees. The two tired men were going to be forced to make a detour deeper into
the forest, further into the silence and shadows and the danger of attack.

 But as Vesarion stood contemplating the obstruction with
disfavour, he detected something he had not expected to hear - the faint sound
of horses’ hooves. Swiftly, he brought Bethro to a halt by the simple expedient
of grasping his arm. Listening intently, he could hear the drum-like beats on
the dry ground. Several horses proceeding at a brisk trot, the rhythm
unmistakable. He remembered that Ferron had said that no horse would tolerate a
Turog on its back, but then Ferron had also said that the Turog were too few in
number to attack them, so he placed little reliance on his wisdom.  Gesturing
for silence, he dragged Bethro behind a brake of thorn bushes. The hoof-beats
grew louder, becoming more insistent, before suddenly ceasing. Ears straining,
Vesarion thought he detected the sound of voices. Signalling to Bethro to stay
put, he stealthily crept through the bushes, sword drawn. The voices grew more
distinct. Definitely not Turog. Then he thought he could distinguish a woman’s
voice, and his heart leapt with hope. However, still cautious, he drew closer,
still keeping to what cover he could find.

 “I’m telling, you,” declared Iska, “they must have gone
downstream as I first said. I know you saw footprints in the sand but you can’t
be sure what caused the prints,”