The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (24 page)

 He then withdrew the silver tinderbox from his pocket, not
noticing how one member of the company’s eyes gleamed when they saw it, and set
to work to get a fire going.

 Gorm and Eimer disappeared out into the downpour together
to hunt, even thought their bows were almost useless in the rain. By the time
they returned, the fire was well and truly alight and an assortment of wet
clothes were spread before it to dry.

 “Any luck?” Iska asked.

 “Not much,” Eimer replied. “Four woodpigeons, that’s all.
Not exactly a feast for six people.”

 “Five people,” corrected Vesarion under his breath, “and
one rodent.”

 Gorm, busily plucking the pigeons, cast him a slant-eyed
look to show that he’d heard but passed no comment.

 “We had better find this tower soon, or some of us are
going to be a lot thinner,” Eimer joked, his eye fixed on Bethro.

“I don’t know why you are all looking at me,” declared the librarian
huffily, and was clearly offended when everyone laughed.

 Although the floor of the cave was hard, and her clothes
still damp, Sareth found that she was so tired that she slept solidly though
the night until the soft light of sunrise creeping in the entrance touched her
face and awoke her. Stiffly she sat up and did what she did every morning when
she was the first to awake – she looked at Vesarion. He was lying on his side,
facing her, still deeply asleep. The roseate light of early morning gently
touched him but he did not stir. He was by now somewhat less neat than was
customary with him. He was unshaven and had a streak of mud across his
forehead. There was also a tear in the sleeve of his shirt and his collar was
frayed, but Sareth saw none of these things. Instead, she indulged herself in
the pleasure of being able to look at him with her feelings written on her face.
After a moment, unable to resist, she arose and crossing to him, bent and
lightly as a falling petal, touched his dark hair.

Then taking the patient horses by their bridles, she led
them out of the cave into the fresh new morning. The rain had passed, but every
tree was still dripping, spattering the damp earth with raindrops. Every drop
was a thing of beauty, turned to a glittering diamond by the clear new light as
the sun rose. She breathed in the fresh, invigorating smell of a morning washed
clean by the rain. The horses were tugging determinedly at their bridles,
scenting grazing, and she led them to a glade, rich with lush grasses, where
she took off their bridles and hobbled them.

 Then seating herself on a convenient stone, she made the
discovery that there was a small tear in the knee of her breeches.

 “You must look a sorry sight,” she told herself severely.
“Torn clothes, muddy shirt and hair that it’s going to take a week to untangle.
Just as well you don’t have a mirror – although I suppose,” she added, her mood
changing, “it scarcely matters what I look like.”

 “Sareth talking to herself,” a voice remarked.

 “Gorm!” she gasped. “You startled me. You certainly can
move stealthily when you want to!”

 But Gorm was standing looking at her, his arms folded, his
head cocked to one side in a manner that she had come to recognise as meaning
that he was considering something.

 “Sareth sad?” he asked at last.

 “No, not at all.”

 “Need something to cheer her up,” he declared. “Like to see
Gorm’s treasures? Show to no one but Sareth?”

 Utterly intrigued, she nodded.

 Carefully, he began to fish about in a little leather pouch
that she had noticed he always wore attached to his belt. With a certain amount
of flourish, like a conjurer, he drew out a slightly grubby silk handkerchief
and began to spread it out at her feet, fussily smoothing it and straightening
the corners.

 Then one by one, he began to place on it an assortment of
small items that he produced from his pouch. As she watched this performance,
Sareth made the discovery that Gorm was something of a magpie, irresistibly
drawn to things that were bright or shiny.

 First, he produced a brass button that he had obviously
polished with such enthusiasm that he had worn the pattern off. He held it
gleaming for a moment in the morning sun before placing it carefully in the
centre of the handkerchief. Next came a piece of broken silver chain, followed
by an assortment of coins, some of  which, Sareth noticed, bore the stamp of
Eskendria, all polished to within an inch of their existence. Then came seven
glass beads in various bright colours and lastly, obviously the most prized
piece, a silver thimble set with pretty enamelled flowers in red and blue.
Instead of setting it on the handkerchief, he held it out to her.

 “Sareth try thimble? Gorm’s finger too big,” he explained,
holding out his leathery hands. Sareth saw that instead of ending in a flat
nail, like a human hand, the top of his finger ended in a slit through which he
could extend or retract his claws like a cat.

 She took the thimble and placing it on her middle finger,
held it up for him to admire.

 An anxious thought suddenly assailed him. “Not
giving
it to Sareth,” he explained hurriedly. “Just
showing
it.”

 “I understand,” she smiled, returning it to him. “These are
beautiful treasures. It’s really cheered me up to see them.”

 Gorm grinned back at her delightedly, with a smile that
would have been quite appealing if it were not for the fact that he exposed a
set of teeth that would not have disgraced a wolf.

 “Treasures secret. Sareth not tell?”

 “No, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

 Reassured, he began to pack away his hoard, carefully
counting the coins and beads.

 When they were all away, he said: “Reach tower tomorrow.”

 “Who lives there, Gorm?”

 “Don’t know. Wizard, maybe.”

 “You haven’t been in it?”

 “Can’t get in.”

 “Why?”

 “You’ll see. Must do what lady spirits say.”

 His reply, although uninformative, proved, as always, to be
accurate, although for an unexpected reason.

 In contrast to the misery of the previous day, the next two
days provided the company with a pleasant ride. They travelled over a rather
lumpy grassland that was characterised by sudden knolls topped by outcrops of
the ubiquitous limestone at the foot of which many springs emerged. Equally
suddenly, it descended into sheltered hollows often occupied by little pools
nestling amongst the lush grasses, their mirrored depths revealing beds of
white pebbles as clearly visible as if looking though glass. Eimer used Ferron’s
crossbow to bring down one of the elusive wild sheep that occasionally could be
seen nibbling the grass, perched perilously on the edge of the outcrops. Bethro
believed that they were the descendants of domesticated sheep left to run wild
after the fall of the Old Kingdom, but regardless of their lineage, they
provided a welcome relief from lean rations.

 With enough food, and warmth from the sun, spirits rose and
the journey could almost be described as idyllic were it not for one minor
incident that occurred just as they were about to set off on the second day –
Vesarion could not find his silver box. As it was essential in order to get a
fire going, everyone began hunting through packs and searching the campsite.
Everyone, that is, except Gorm. He stood to one side, kicking his heels,
looking a shade too disinterested in proceedings. Sareth, already alerted to
his weakness for shiny things, had her suspicions, and fixing him with her eye,
managed to convey these to him by means of a stern frown. Vainly, he attempted
to look blandly innocent but only succeeded in looking shifty. Unfortunately
for him, this by-play was witnessed by the owner of the missing item.

 He crossed to Gorm and held out his hand. “If you please,”
he said shortly.

 Gorm, recognising that denial was hopeless, stuck his hand
into his leather pouch and produced the missing box.

 “Not stealing,” he offered unconvincingly. “Keeping safe.”

 Although Vesarion turned away without a word, Gorm knew he
was under a cloud. He now jogged along ahead of them, aware that even his
adored Sareth was displeased with him. She had called him incorrigible. Gorm
had no idea what that was, but he was fairly certain that it was something that
one didn’t want to be. Anxiously he waited for her to punish him by giving away
the existence of his treasures, but Sareth was true to her word and said
nothing. Feeling a little more hopeful, he decided to redeem himself by being a
model guide. Swiftly and surely he led them across the grassland, over small
ridges and into warm dells until emerging onto the edge of a low escarpment,
they could see, stretching out below them into the distance, the Wood of
Ammerith.

 As they reached the top of the escarpment and gained an uninterrupted
view of what lay below, everyone, except Gorm who had been there before, halted
in surprise. There, stretched out below them, occupying the entirety of a
large, wide valley was a forest of gold. From the height of their vantage point,
the tiny ochre and buttercup-yellow leaves that made up the forest were not
individually visible but gave the overall impression of a dragon’s hoard, a sea
of  shimmering gold  set a-dance by the playful wind. The sun, sailing serenely
in a cloudless sky, illuminated miles of aureate forest, that even so early in
the year was glowing as if every beautiful autumn had arrived at once.

 “What are those trees?” Sareth asked Gorm.

 “Don’t know,” he replied, with his usual bluntness. “Bit like
beech trees but leaves yellow all year, even in winter.”

 “Imagine those golden leaves set off against a background
of snow in wintertime. I would love to see that,” Sareth breathed, already
seeing it in her mind’s eye.

 “Well, I’d like to see it now,” said Iska, tugging
impatiently at Vesarion’s jerkin. “What are we waiting here for? Let’s get down
amongst the trees.”

 They descended the low escarpment by means of an easy,
zigzagging path and the moment they entered the forest, they realised that the
trees were even more beautiful from below than they were from above, for the
sun lit the canopy from behind, setting every leaf ablaze, glowing like some
celestial treasure. Even the light filtering between the smooth, grey trunks
was a soft, honeyed haze as if they rode through the distilled essence of
summer. Nor was the forest silent. The air was alive with the song of many birds
which chirped and twittered cheerfully to one another, flashing between the
trees. The companions looked at one another and began to smile, finding it
impossible to be downhearted in such a place.

 Gorm led them steadily onwards, following what appeared to
be a beaten track that meandered indecisively through the trees. There was
little undergrowth to mar the purity of the trunks and this enabled them to see
that the ground was in fact descending at a gentle gradient deeper into the
valley, towards the heart of the Wood of Ammerith.

 Bethro looked around him in delight, leaving it up to his
horse to follow the others, feeling for the first time since he had left
Eskendria, that he was safe. That horrible feeling of being watched that he had
endured in the Great Forest, was absent here and he looked around him, not for
sign of ambush, but in the hope of catching a glimpse of the cheerful birds as
they swooped between the branches.

 Gorm, whatever his other defects as a travelling companion,
had not deceived them when he had told them that he knew the region well. He
led them onwards at a steady pace, not hesitating for an instant but choosing
every fork in the path with reassuring confidence. Steadily, through the
somnolent light of late afternoon, they descended through the trees, deeper and
deeper into the sleepy forest until the world beyond began to seem a harsh and
distant place.

 At last they emerged into a large clearing that boasted a
grassy area open to the sky and in the centre stood a most remarkable building.

 A broad, round tower made of blocks of sandstone occupied
the middle of a lawn of short daisy-covered grass, completely encircled by a
high, thorn hedge. By virtue of the fact that the ground was still descending
and it lay a little below them, they could see over the hedge and had a fine
view of the building. It was squat for a tower, rising to only two stories above
ground level and was a little splayed at the base, giving the impression that some
giant of old had absent-mindedly sat upon it, compressing it from something
once much taller. The upper floors had a number of tiny windows that pierced
the stone but the wall of the ground floor was, as far as they could tell,
uniformly blank. Its roof was conical, neatly tiled in overlapping grey slates.
However the very deep overhang of the roof gave the impression that it had been
intended for a much larger building and had somehow been placed there by
mistake, causing it to look like a boy wearing his father’s hat. Beside it was
another, smaller building, an exact replica of the original only in miniature,
as if the larger tower had given birth.

 “It looks like an oversized pepper-pot.” declared Eimer. “Why
is it called the Rose Tower, Gorm?” .

 “Don’t know.”

 “It’s not really a tower at all,” said Iska, “for it is
really not tall enough to justify that description. Perhaps it got its name
because the sandstone it is made from is slightly pink.”,

 “Perhaps,” agreed Eimer. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know
for sure. How it got its name is a mystery now lost in the mists of legend.
What do you think, Gorm?”

 “Thorns not a mystery,” he replied, then added with all the
feeling of personal experience: “Very big thorns.”

 As they approached the barrier, it became clear that Gorm
had not been exaggerating. The hedge was so dense that nothing could be seen
through it. It soared above them to a height far above their heads, even on
horseback, so that all that was visible of the tower was the tip of its conical
roof.  Every branch bristled with truly murderous thorns, as long and thick as
a man’s finger.

 “How do we get in?” Sareth asked. “Does the other side have
an entrance?”

 “No entrance,” Gorm advised. “No door. Told you before,
can’t get in.”

 Vesarion, nevertheless, refusing to take his word for it,
did a circuit of the hedge and returned with failure written on his face.

 “Well, this is just great!” exclaimed Eimer. “I thought we
were supposed to get help here? Now it seems we can’t even get in. I presume we
will just have to cut our way through.”

 “No good,”  said Gorm, his long arms folded forbiddingly.

 But Eimer drew his sword anyway and took a vigorous swing
at a thorny branch. To his astonishment, the blade bounced off with
wrist-jarring force and flew from his hand, disappearing with a flash into the
trees.

“Told you,” pronounced the Turog in glum satisfaction.

 “This clearly is no ordinary hedge,” declared Bethro, who
liked to state the obvious. “Eimer’s sword made no impression upon it at all,
which suggests enchantment of some kind.”

 The Prince returned from retrieving his sword in time to
hear the remark. “Well, as none of us has any powers that would break the
spell, it appears that we have wasted our time in coming here.”

 “Perhaps if we can attract the attention of the Keeper of
the Tower, he will let us in,” suggested Iska, who, acting on her word, began
to call out.

 Sareth caught her arm. “If the Keeper of the Tower has the
power to put this spell in place, then I would suggest that he already knows
that we are here.”

 Iska stopped with comical abruptness, unsettled by the
thought, and silence fell, broken only by the distant call of the birds echoing
through the forest.

 Finally, Vesarion, who had taken no part in the discussion
but had been staring at the hedge in thoughtful concentration, spoke up.

 “The spirits of the lake would not send us here only for us
to have to give up in defeat. Whoever lives in this tower must remain true to
the old ways and it therefore occurs to me that what is needed to get through
this hedge of enchantment, is some sort of password.”

“But what could it be?” Iska asked.

 They all, as of one accord, looked at Bethro.

“You are the self-proclaimed expert in all matters
pertaining to the Old Kingdom,” Eimer observed tactlessly “So what do you think
the word could be?”

 The librarian, finding everyone’s expectation focused upon
him, began to babble. “I really have no idea. I mean, it could be anything. The
choice is virtually limitless. It could be connected with Yervenar, or the Book
of Light or even something from the Lays of Tissro the Wanderer.”

 He agitatedly began to pace up and down in front of the
hedge, flinging first one word at it, then another, with no visible result.

 One by one his audience began to sink down onto the grass,
realising that they might be there for some time.

 But as Bethro became more and more frustrated with the fact
that nothing was happening in response to his efforts, once again, it was
Vesarion who came up with the answer.

 “Of course,” he suddenly cried, clapping his hand to his
forehead. “How could we be so stupid? What is the one thing that symbolises the
Old Kingdom?” Receiving only blank looks in response, he continued: “The chalice
flower!”

 The Keeper of Antiquities, somewhat disgruntled at being
out-done in the intellectual field by a mere amateur, swung round to face the
hedge and pronounced the words with something of a bite.

 Absolutely nothing happened.

 Repressing a smug smile, he said patronisingly to Vesarion:
“A good try – but wrong.”

 “It’s not wrong,” Vesarion countered. “You used the incorrect
language. You spoke in the modern tongue instead of the old language.”

Looking steadfastly at the hedge, in a firm voice, he said:
“
Chalcoria.
”

 For a moment the word seemed to have no effect, but then
slowly the tendrils of the hedge began to unknit, unwinding and retreating from
one another, each stem uncurling, releasing its hold on its neighbour. The
heavier branches did their part by leaning backwards until a gap opened,
showing a clear view of the daisy-speckled lawn and the Rose Tower with its
offspring basking in the last of the sun.

 “Do we go in?” asked Eimer, finding that having achieved
their purpose, he was now a little reluctant.

 “What if the hedge closes behind us and we can’t get out
again?” whispered Iska anxiously, still apparently concerned with unseen
eavesdroppers.

 Vesarion took his horse by the bridle and began to lead it
through the gap.

 “We can hardly sit outside and starve to death,” he said.
“Come on.”

 They all followed him except Gorm. Sareth turned to find
the Turog hanging back.

 “Are you coming, Gorm?”

 “No. Don’t like magic hedge. Don’t like places of cut
stone.”

 “What does he mean by cut stone?” Bethro asked Sareth.

 “I think he means that he doesn’t like buildings. Is that
right, Gorm?”

 “Like forest better,” he declared and began to back towards
his favourite habitat.

 When he had gone, Vesarion remarked to the Prince: “I wish
that someone would introduce that rodent to pronouns. However, with any luck,
we’ve seen the last of him.”

 When they had all passed through the hedge, it quietly
closed again, the flexible tendrils writhing towards one another to form a
chaotic tapestry as dense and thick as it had ever been.

 They decided to investigate the smaller building first. It
only had a ground floor and quaintly wore its oversized hat like a mushroom.
Although they entered it in some trepidation, it proved to be an enormous
anti-climax, for they discovered that it was, in fact, something quite mundane.
It was a circular stable, divided into about a dozen stalls, six of which were
occupied by beautiful dun and chestnut horses, their coats glossy with health.

 Sareth approached a mare who had a white star on her
forehead and began to stroke her smooth neck.

 “Our horses are tired,” she said, “ and as it looks like,
regardless of what we find, we will be spending the night here, so we should
turn them into the spare stalls to rest and feed.”

 Bethro, who had not come with them to the stables but had
instead, feeling unusually bold, done a circuit of the larger tower, arrived at
that moment to tell them that he had found a door.

 “Is it open?” Sareth asked.

  “Em…..I didn’t try it. I thought we should perhaps all
stick together,” he offered as a lame excuse for cravenness.

 He led them to a small, pointed doorway recessed deeply into
the rose-coloured stone. The faded oak door was shut in refusal but a heavy
iron handle cast in the shape of an oak leaf, offered some hope of admittance. 
Eimer, taking the initiative, grasped the handle and pushed. To his surprise,
the door swung open easily, revealing a narrow passageway that tunnelled
through the thick stone leading directly towards the heart of the tower. The smallness
of the doorway meant that they had to enter in single file. Without a word
being spoken, Eimer and Vesarion went first, their swords drawn. After a short
distance, they found that the passage opened onto a magnificent circular room
that took up the centre of the tower. It had no ceiling but rose up through the
first and second floors directly into the conical roof. Suspended galleries
circled the chamber, leading to doors opening off the upper floors, accessed by
slender, curved staircases fashioned out of the same stone as the building. The
roof must have contained some concealed crystal or glass panels, for sunlight
softly filtered its way downwards, illuminating the interior with a subdued,
slightly dusty light. To one side, an enormous stone fireplace contained a log
fire, smouldering somnolently in the hearth, around which were many comfortable
chairs. In the centre, sitting on a carpet of rich red hue, was a round table
made of some polished black wood, flanked by a dozen tall-backed dining chairs.
Dotted here and there were slender holders for candles, as tall as a man, and
fashioned out of silver to look like fragile tree saplings. Every branch was
set with thick white candles as yet unlit.

 There was not a person in sight. The only living thing,
seated on a velvet-covered armchair by the fire, was a large grey cat, the
proud owner of the most enormous set of whiskers anyone had ever seen. Green
eyes met amber eyes as it stared fixedly at Iska.