The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (33 page)

 Eimer, who was closest, with lightning reflexes, whipped
his sword out of its scabbard and engaged the creature just as its blade was
descending on its hapless victim. The two swords crossed with a clash, barely
an inch above Bethro’s nose. In sheer terror, he did the only thing he could
think of – he closed his eyes and fainted.

 Gorm, aware of his larger kindred’s propensity for ambush,
barked out: “Look behind you! There’ll be more!”

 He had barely spoken when with a series of gravelly thuds,
several more descended from the rock walls, landing in a  menacing crouching
position, swords already drawn.

 Iska, being the only one unarmed, shrank back out of the
way, hoping to be overlooked, but the others  braced themselves for the attack.

 One launched an assault on Vesarion, and with little
warning he found himself exchanging vicious blows with it. It was over six feet
in height, every bit as tall as he was, and it soon became evident that it was
a powerful and cunning opponent. Getting his customary double-handed grip on
his sword, Vesarion directed many blows against it of impressive power but it
deflected them all with seemingly little effort. When it appeared that neither was
able to make much impression on the other, it disengaged for a moment and began
to circle around him, assessing him, whilst emitting a soft, menacing hissing
noise through its sharp teeth.

 Sareth was in even more trouble, for her opponent was not
only stronger than she was, but almost as fast. Remembering Parrick’s words,
she kept moving, feinting unexpectedly to left and right, suddenly withdrawing
in an attempt to unbalance it, refusing to be coerced into a contest of
strength. But despite all this, it was herding her towards a narrow bay in the
rocks in an attempt to trap her. She knew that once it had her cornered and she
no longer had the room to play off her tricks against it, the fight would be
over. Sensing its advantage, it lunged at her with such speed that her parry
came a fraction too late. The edge of its blade nicked her arm, causing a
splash of crimson to appear on the sleeve of her white linen shirt.

 Gorm was frustrating his opponent by refusing to fight. It
pursued him angrily but instead of facing it, he was scuttling around as busy and
elusive as a cockroach. However, when he saw Sareth’s plight, he charged to her
rescue as fast as his sturdy legs would carry him. Coming up behind her
single-minded opponent, with the greatest of glee, he plunged his short sword
into its thigh. It let out a terrifying roar of pain and spun its sword
backwards so quickly that had Gorm been only a little taller, he would have
been decapitated. As it was, the blow sliced so close that it caused him to
duck and roll out of the way over on one shoulder.

 Vesarion, refusing to be put on the defensive by his
opponent’s tactics, began to circle, too, watching it keenly, and detecting a
small opening, he sprang into the attack. Abandoning his usual two-handed grip,
he lashed out with the full length of his right arm and caught the Turog by
surprise by the extent of his reach. The tip of his sword ripped across its
shoulder, slicing with impressive accuracy between the steel rings on its
leather cuirass. It staggered back in astonishment, and seizing his chance,
Vesarion rammed his sword with immense force into its chest. Hastily jerking his
weapon clear, he prepared to attack again, but there was no need, for his
adversary was clearly finished. It sank to its knees, the light dying in its
cruel eyes, then crashed forward onto its face.

 Sareth, in the meantime, was still in trouble. Her
opponent, refusing to be distracted by Gorm’s intervention, had redoubled its
efforts against her. The course of the fight had brought her into her brother’s
proximity but he was so fully engaged that he could be of no  help to her. Gorm
danced in and out of the two fights like an annoying wasp looking for the
opportunity to sting, and finally managed to bring down Eimer’s opponent by
cutting its hamstrings. Eimer, not wasting such a gift, soon finished it, but
Sareth’s enemy had achieved what it has been trying to achieve. It had boxed
her in between the rock walls in a position from which there was no escape.

 Gorm flew to help, but Vesarion was quicker. The Red Turog,
beating down Sareth’s last defence, was preparing its final blow, when out of
the corner of its eye something alerted it to its peril. It whirled round with
a snarl just in time to see the razor-sharp edge of Vesarion’s sword being
swung towards it at shoulder height. The blow was delivered with such
cutting-force that it sliced through its exposed neck, severing its head from
its body. It stood suspended for a heart-beat, pumping blood, before collapsing
in a gory heap.

 The two remaining Turog, seeing that all was not going to
plan, sprang up the rock face again with astonishing agility and were soon gone
from sight.

 “They’ll be back,” observed Gorm to Vesarion sourly. “Gone
to find more Turog.”

 But Vesarion was paying little heed to him, for he had just
noticed the splash of crimson on Sareth’s sleeve.

 “You’re hurt!” he exclaimed, wiping his brow with the back
of his hand. “Here, let me see.”

 “It’s just a scratch,” Sareth assured him, trying to
deflect him. “Honestly, there’s no need to fuss.”

 But he sat her down on a rock and rolling up her sleeve,
gently began to clean the blood away with his handkerchief.

 With a sound of relief, he said: “It’s just superficial.
Those animals are both strong and fast. Not easy opponents.”

 As he tied the handkerchief tightly around her arm, he discovered
she was smiling. “That reminds me of something Parrick used to say.  He said
that if he had to choose between strength and speed, he would choose speed
every time. But when I asked him what I should do if I ever met an opponent who
was both strong and fast, he gave me a piece of very wise advice.”

 “What was that?”

 “One word –
run
!”

 He laughed. “Wise advice indeed.”

 She called across to her brother who, with Iska’s help, was
unavailingly trying to revive the unconscious librarian.

“I’m in need of some practice sessions, Eimer. Will you
oblige me?”

 “No,” he answered without hesitation.

 “Not very gallant, Eimer,” Vesarion declared.

 “You only say that because you have never had a practice
session with my wild-cat of a sister. Most people go a little easy when they
are practicing for fear of hurting a friendly opponent – but not Sareth! I
could hardly begin to count the cuts and bruises she has given me over the
years.”

 “I promise, I’ll be careful,” she offered contritely.

 “I’ll think about it. By the way, we can’t seem to get any
life out of Bethro. He’s just lying here like a felled tree. Any suggestions?”

 Vesarion smiled wickedly. “Try Sirkrisian spirit,” he
advised smoothly, “given neat.”

 By the time the tears had stopped running down Bethro’s face
and his coughing fit had eased, Gorm, who had disappeared off after the Red Turog
in an attempt to find out where they had come from, arrived back.

 “Lost them,” he announced glumly, then turning his eyes on
Bethro, asked: “What’s up with him?” in callously indifferent tones. But when
he saw the blood on Sareth’s shirt, that was a different matter.

 “Sareth hurt!” he cried in alarm and was not reassured when
he was told that it was only a scratch.

 “Red Turog sometimes coat edge of blade with poison,” he
informed them anxiously. Nothing would do him but to inspect the injury himself
but afterwards he seemed a little less fearful. “Small cut,” he confirmed. “Not
enough poison to kill. Maybe make Sareth a little sick. Fever, maybe, but not
kill.”

 “You’re sure they’ll be back?” Vesarion asked.

The small Turog nodded in a vigorous manner that brooked no
doubt.

 “Then I think we must get out of this maze, for it is
nothing other than a trap. There is another staircase arising out of the far
end of this valley and perhaps it will bring us up to more open territory.
Certainly, before nightfall we must find somewhere more secure that we can
defend.” He turned in some concern to Sareth. “Are you ready to move on?”

 “Yes. I’m fine. I don’t think the blade was poisoned
because I feel perfectly well.”

 For the rest of that day they ascended staircase after
staircase, creeping up the unrelenting face of the stark mountainside until
they emerged above the network of dry river-courses into a more open area of
jumbled grey rocks and giant boulders interspersed with narrow, deep fissures,
perfectly designed for breaking an ankle.  Painfully slowly, they began to pick
their way across the desolate, windswept place, conscious not only that the
light was beginning to go, but that  they had yet found no place that offered
them any safety.

 Moreover, Sareth, who had started out full of energy, was now
bringing up the rear, lagging a little behind, her eyes overly bright, her
cheeks unusually flushed.

 Vesarion, glancing back, noticed her some distance below
the others and retraced his steps until he arrived by her side. Without
speaking a word, he lightly placed his hand on her forehead.

 “You’re running a temperature,” he said briefly.

 She sighed. “I think I’m turning out to be a liability.”

 “Yes, you are,” he unexpectedly agreed with her. Startled,
her eyes flew to him, until she saw the mischief in his expression. “I mean,”
he continued, warming to his theme, “you throw yourself in the path of
avalanches and pick fights with Red Turog, not to mention acquiring a witch and
a rodent for your best friends. You’re something of a handful, wouldn’t you
say?”

 She was chuckling appreciatively by now. “And that’s not
even counting getting a fever when we least need it.”

 “Let’s just hope that Gorm was right and that it won’t
amount to anything. Still, I think we need to get you out of this cold wind to
somewhere you can rest – preferably somewhere that those animals can’t find
us.” He looked at Gorm. “Is there any chance that we could loose them?”

 “Red Turog good trackers but bare rocks not give many
clues.”

 “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

 Iska had gone on a little ahead and was standing on a
boulder staring intently up  the mountainside into the swirling mist that concealed
the peaks some distance above them.

 “Look, Eimer,” she called, staring fixedly at something high
above them. “Do you see it?”

 He stood beside her, his eyes following the direction of
her finger. “Can’t see a thing but mist,” he said eventually, and turned to go.

 “No. Wait!” she commanded, detaining him by catching hold
of his cloak. “Just there! Wait for the mist to part again.”

 “There’s nothing there.”

 “Just wait,” she repeated tensely.

As he watched, the grey, shifting veils of mist did indeed
eddy apart for a brief moment, torn by the rising wind, and before they closed
again, Eimer saw high above them, on a stormy pinnacle of rock, a dark fortress.

Vesarion stood on the boulder, facing into the rising wind,
intently studying the mountainside above him. The mist was frustrating him.
Sometimes it tore apart to give a brief glimpse of the fortress, at others it
coalesced to form a curtain almost completely opaque. For a long time he stood,
as if struggling to come to a decision, ignoring the hard pellets of snow that
the wind was whipping stingingly into his face. At last, he jumped down
decisively and returned to the others.

 “I couldn’t get a very clear view of it,” he explained,
“but I think it is much further away than it seems. Certainly it is
considerably higher than our present position and it’s difficult to gauge what
may lie in between. I could see a snowfield stretching in front of it, dotted
here and there with fir trees, but the mist was playing cat and mouse with me,
giving me only the most fleeting of glimpses.”

 He turned to Gorm. “”Do you know anything about it? Do you
know who lives there?”

 “No one,” said Gorm bluntly. “Other Turog say black castle
is evil place. Best not go there.”

 “What do you mean by evil?”

 “Don’t know. Never been there.”

 “Why is it even there at all?” asked Eimer. “It may be
abandoned now, but why was it built in such an inhospitable place in the first
place?”

 Bethro, of course, had a theory. “It must have been built
to guard the pass through the mountains. The Keeper said that although the left
hand path was dangerous, it did provide a means of crossing the mountains, did
he not?”

 “He did,” confirmed Vesarion. “Let us hope that you are
correct, Bethro, and it does indeed guard a pass, because I have been standing
on that rock for some time now, trying to see a passage between the peaks and I
can see nothing. At first I thought that the low cloud and mist must be hiding
it, but for an instant the wind whipped the mist away and I could see right up
into the heights of the peaks and I could see no obvious way through them.”

 Eimer, pulling his fur-lined cloak closer around him, said:
“At this stage, it hardly matters. This wind is rising and rapidly whipping the
snow into a blizzard. If we don’t get some shelter soon, crossing the mountains
will be the least of our worries.”

 Vesarion looked at Sareth who was visibly shaking with cold
and forced himself to overcome a nebulous sense of foreboding that had taken hold
of him ever since he had beheld the fortress.

  “You are right, we have little choice in the matter,” he
agreed. Looking doubtfully at Sareth, he said: “The fortress is some distance
away, and we’ll have to move fast, as the light will be gone soon, do you think
you can manage?”

 She summoned up the ghost of a smile, even though her teeth
were chattering together.

“Yes, of course. I’m keen to find out what sort of
h-hospitality is on offer. Whatever it is, it’s bound to b-be an improvement of
this.” Then pulling her hood up, she declared in very typical fashion: “You’d
think that the one advantage in having a f-fever is that at least you’d feel
warm, but I feel only marginally warmer than a glacier at the m-moment.”

 It was left to Iska to voice what they all had been
secretly feeling ever since the castle had come into view.

“I’m only going because I have to. There’s something about
that place, even from a distance, that I don’t like. However, as the only other
alternative is to freeze to death, I’ll give it a try.”

 Eimer attempted to be reassuring. “Don’t worry, Iska, Gorm
said it is deserted, so there is nothing that could hurt you.”

 But the Turog effectively scuppered this attempt at cheer.
“Said the first bit. Not second.”

 For the remainder of that day, they toiled across the area
of broken rocks and deep fissures, working their way ever higher. They battled
constantly against a vicious wind that hurled particles of snow and ice at them
with such velocity that it soon had their exposed faces raw with cold. By the
time they reached the snowfield that lay before the fortress, dusk was
beginning to close in as stealthily as a hunting cat. A level area of
violet-blue snow lay before them, pristine and untouched, save for writhing
snakes of white being driven across it by the relentless wind. Here and there dark
firs, leaning before the gale, spread graceful, downward-sweeping skirts from
which the wind was stripping the snow. On the far side of this, reared up a sheer
pinnacle of rock, stabbing like a needle towards the sky, its steely sides dark
against the whiteness. It stood proud of the  brooding mountainside that loomed
up behind it, its bare face flecked here and there with whiteness where the
snow found ledges horizontal enough to rest upon. Although somewhat dwarfed by
the massive bulk of the mountain, the pinnacle was still awe-inspiring, soaring
above the snowfield crowned by the black diadem that was the fortress. The
builders of the castle had provided access to their eyrie by incising a path
into the face of the rock that zigzagged steeply upwards until it reached the
dark walls. The castle, although exuding ancientness, seemed strangely intact.
Vesarion, looking at it closely, decided that for whatever reason it had been
abandoned,  it was too complete to have been the assault of an enemy. A few torn
rags of mist, like evicted ghosts, still clung stubbornly to the tops of the
many tall, forbidding towers, resisting the efforts of the wind to drag them away.
The keep, visible above the curtain wall, was not a single building like Sorne
or Ravenshold, but a jumble of connected buildings, from which arose many tall
towers around which could be seen tiny flecks of black, tossed about by the
assaulting wind against a backdrop of bruised clouds.

 “Ravens,” pronounced Bethro, raising his voice above the
wind. “It reminds me of the old name for the capital of Westrin – Sadris Karn –
the Fortress of the Ravens,”

 Iska looked at Vesarion, her eyes widening in astonishment.
“Ravenshold is like
that
?” she exclaimed, staring horrified at the grim
edifice before her.

 “Well, no, not exactly,” he replied, leaping to the defence
of his beloved home. “Ravenshold is a stronghold that was designed to secure our
borders from incursions by the Turog and so it is a little stark on the outside,
but it is pleasant and comfortable enough on the inside. Moreover, although it
is snow-bound in winter, at this time of year its valleys are green, laced by
many streams, with pastures full of lambs. The air above them is scattered with
swallows and its rich woodlands are not dead, like this, but are alive with young
deer and many birds.” Then realising he was waxing almost poetical, he added
severely: “Whereas, I don’t think this place ever thaws.”

 Eimer, who had been staring up at the fortress, more than a
little intimidated by it, added: “Besides, I hate to contradict you, Bethro,
but they are not ravens, just common old crows – and lots of them. I wonder what
on earth they find to eat up here?”

 Bethro merely sniffed, not pleased at being corrected, but
Gorm, rather ghoulishly, had his own suggestion: “Dead bodies,” he announced
morbidly.

 “T-there’s another p-problem,” stammered Sareth, cheeks
scarlet but still shaking from the cold. “If we cross that s-snowfield, we will
be leaving a t-trail that a blind man could hardly fail to see.”

 Vesarion raised his face to the leaden sky as if searching
for answers. “Then we must hope for a heavy fall of snow.”

 Yet when they had waded their way across the snowfield to
the foot of the pinnacle and he looked back, he was forced to concede that they
had left a trail so obvious that they may as well have erected a signpost.
However, as if a greater power had heard his request, the snow was indeed beginning
to fall again, whisked hither and thither by the hysterical wind. For the first
time since he had entered such frozen regions, he found himself willing it to
continue. They had reached the foot of the path by now, and he leaned back to
view the fortress now directly above. All that was visible from such an acute
angle was the vertiginous rocks and a section of curtain wall. The only
apparent occupants of the castle could be heard cawing and cackling in their
harsh voices, as they squabbled over roosting places for the night in the bleak
towers.

 He turned to Gorm, standing with his arms aggressively
folded.

 “You’re sure the castle is abandoned?”

 “No,” the Turog replied. “Other Turog say so. Don’t know
for sure.”

 “Great!” exclaimed Eimer is frustration. “You’re a lot of
use. I suppose we’ll just have to chance it.”

 As they began the ascent, he saw Vesarion quietly draw his
sword and with a little chill of apprehension, did likewise. The gate-tower was
pierced by a deep, tunnel-like archway which gave a little shelter from the
storm. The chains and pulleys that had once operated a heavy portcullis were
still there, clinking dismally as they were stirred by the wind, but the
portcullis itself was gone, leaving the fortress wide open and defenceless; a
purposeless existence. There was no sign of recent occupation and all was quiet
except for the  moan of the wind in the tunnel and the raucous squabbling of
the crows high above.

 The entrance led inevitably to the main courtyard, covered
in a blanket of snow that, encouragingly, bore no other imprint than the light
tracks of the birds. A dozen dead crows lay in black untidy heaps against the
white, their feet frozen into claws.

 “There’s hardly any snow on them,” said Eimer, in a voice
barely above a whisper. “That means they died recently. I wonder what killed
them?”

 But Vesarion was paying no attention. His concentration was
fixed on the massive iron-shod doors that provided the entrance to the keep.

 “Eimer,” he called softly. “Beside me, if you please. We
must see what lies behind these doors before allowing the others to enter.” He
flicked a glance over his shoulder at the shivering group behind him. “Stay
here until Eimer and I have established that it is safe. If you hear any sound
of trouble, get out of here just as fast as you can go.”

 But Gorm, never very good at taking orders, came and stood
beside him.

 “Come too,” he announced.

 Vesarion looked down at the short Turog, sword in hand,
nail-studded boots set belligerently apart and did not argue.

 Together they ascended the broad semi-circular steps that
led to the door and Vesarion, transferring his sword to his left hand, grasped
the rusting iron ring. He gave it a sharp push but it remained stubbornly shut.

“Is it locked?” asked Eimer.

 “I don’t think do. It’s just stuck from years of disuse.
Give me a hand with it.”

 Together, they put their shoulders to the door and heaved
until, with a reluctant groan from ancient hinges, it slowly swung inwards. The
interior smelt musty and damp. A huge, gloomy hall stretched before them, its
darkness only dimly penetrated by the weak light spilling in from the door. It
was so immense that its roof and outer edges disappeared into shadow, leaving
them guessing as to its full extent. As they advanced further, they encountered
an extensive area of stone-flagged floor upon which stood double rows of stout
granite pillars which supported the darkened ceiling far above them. A stone
staircase with a heavy balustrade, thick with dust, rose upwards to disappear
into the darkness of an upper floor. At one end of the hall was a truly massive
fireplace, big enough for several people to walk into, but although much blackened,
it had clearly not seen a fire in many a long year. Apart from that, the only
other things to be found in the echoing emptiness of the hall were heaps of
detritus. Rusting spears, broken chairs and tables, some battered metal
tankards and four or five wooden shields, now worm-eaten. There were also heaps
of old books, their pages swollen with damp until their leather covers were
bursting.

 “I think its safe for the others to come in now,” suggested
Eimer. The stone walls took up his words and echoed them hollowly back at him.
“This place hasn’t seen any activity in years.”

 Vesarion nodded and then accompanied by Gorm, headed for
the staircase to see what the upper floor contained.

 When the two of them returned, it appeared that they had
found nothing other than a similar scene of desolation on the floors above,
however, they had discovered some old, pitch-soaked torches which Vesarion was
carrying. He handed his silver box to Iska. “Make a fire using all this stuff,”
he said, indicating the heaps of broken furniture, “and get Sareth warm. If we
can get these torches to light, Eimer and I will do a bit of exploring just to
get the lie of the land.”

 “By that, I take it you mean wandering around dark passages
waiting to see what jumps out at you.”

 He laughed, but as the echoing hall picked up the sound and
magnified it horribly, rendering it a shade demoniacal, he hastily stopped.

 “I’ll change places with you, if you like,” he offered.

 “Not for a king’s ransom,” she declared fervently. “I’ll
get Bethro to close the great doors again and with a fire to warm us and some
food, who knows, perhaps this place might seem even homely?”

 He merely raised his eyebrows to convey his scepticism and
as soon as the torches were lit, he and Eimer forced open a side door and began
their search.

 The fortress was a labyrinth of bare stone corridors, empty
rooms and sudden narrow staircases either ascending into the heights of a tower
or descending into depths so uninviting that they remained unexplored. Every
chamber, every hall, was stark and bare except for the occasional broken or
discarded item, suggesting that the castle had been pillaged after it had been
abandoned. Here and there symbols in the Turogs’ barbaric language had been
scratched crudely upon the walls, confirming Gorm’s statement that they knew of
its existence.