The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (42 page)

 Iska shrugged. “You know that he hasn’t spoken to me since
I was twelve, and before that, he was merely using me as a means to an end, so
I cannot pretend a grief that I do not feel. What concerns me more, is the
prospect of Mordrian becoming king. My father tolerated my existence. Mordrian
will not. It seems to me, that sooner or later, I am destined to leave the Kingdom
of Adamant for good.”

 The grille into the back of the crypt was stiffer than Iska
remembered, but after some violent tugging, it opened with a rusty squeak that
set her teeth on edge. The serene moon that had lit their journey across
Adamant, was gone now, sulking behind an overcast sky that bore down heavily on
the earth, making the night inky-black. Only someone who knew the palace wall
and the parkland beyond with great familiarity could have even found their way
to the crypt, and Iska was glad she had discouraged the others from coming.
Since her last visit, before she had left for Eskendria, something had changed
at the old crypt. Its main door was now flanked by two fully-armed soldiers.
She had been told by Callis that it was guarded, but moving with the silence of
a prowling cat, she had been alerted to the exact location of the sentries by
hearing a soft cough and the clink of armour as they shifted their position
during their long stint on duty. Undeterred, she had crept round to the back
like a thief.

 Once inside, she discovered that the crypt was not in the
stygian blackness of her last visit. A faint light glimmered between the tombs.
Moving softly between the silent effigies of her forebears, she discovered that
the flickering orange light was provided by two torches placed in brackets on
the wall beside the tomb of Cordis of Parth, the founder of the Kingdom. He lay
in his carved robes, his granite crown upon his head, his empty stone eyes
contemplating eternity. This time, the carved effigy did not move, but it was
not alone. Its rest was disturbed by the intrusion of four living figures.

 Iska darted into the shadow of an ornate tomb, with carved
pilasters that allowed her to look round the corner without being easily seen,
and gasped in recognition as her eye fell on one of the figures. The same
flowing grey robes she had seen before, encased a figure of great height. The
same deep hood concealed its face. The same grey gloves covered its hands. If
she had been in any doubt as to whether it was the demon, her doubts were soon
dispelled, for an invisible but tangible aura of menace surrounded it, indeed,
flowed from it, reaching into the mind and soul of the silent watcher, causing
her to tremble with well-remembered dread. Iska’s legs began to shake so much
that she sank down into a crouching position, holding onto the corner of the
tomb for support.

 The other three figures stood a little to one side, with
their backs turned to her, watching all the demon did intently. For some reason,
something in their posture suggested subordination to it, but they were
formidable figures in their own right. They appeared to be tall, powerful men,
dressed entirely in black from their boots to their hooded tunics. Their hands,
like their master’s, were encased in black gauntlets and they were each armed
with heavy swords that hung in scabbards against their thighs. What they were
watching, equally drew Iska’s fascinated gaze, for a blacksmith’s forge had
been set up in the crypt and was glowing with an intense, hellish redness. It
painted every silent stone figure atop its plinth with a rim of fiery light. As
the furnace flared and the light increased, she saw that the three forms in
black had their faces concealed by steel visors worn beneath their hoods. The
visors left nothing of their faces visible, possessing only small barred slits
for the wearer to see through and similar ones for nose and mouth. Somehow, this
transformed the visor into a mask, inhuman in its cold detachment. The polished
metal gleamed red and gold, reflecting the light of the furnace, but she
thought briefly that she caught a glimpse of eyes behind the barred slit. Yet
Iska’s gaze was irresistibly drawn away from them towards the figure in grey as
it worked before the furnace. With dreadful fascination, as if under a spell,
her eyes fastened on it, unable to look away. Indeed, her whole body seemed to
be drawn irresistibly forwards. She caught herself leaning too far beyond the
shelter of the tomb and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed to move
a little backwards into the shadows.

 Yet the demon was paying no heed to those around it. It was
watching with intense concentration something in the depths of the furnace. Then,
apparently satisfied with what it saw, it reached its gloved hand into the heart
of the raging fire and lifted out a crucible, filled to the brim with white-hot
molten metal. If Iska had needed any convincing that what she saw was neither
human, nor even mortal, this was it, for it held the incandescent heat of the
crucible without effort or pain. No flame kindled upon it, nor was its glove or
sleeve even so much as scorched. As the crucible emerged from the flames, the
three figures in black fell to their knees and began to chant something in a
language that Iska had not heard before, in deep bass voices that reverberated
around the crypt. Seemingly gaining strength from their genuflection, the
hooded figure lifted up the crucible higher, as if in offering, and addressed
the three.

 “You, my servants, the first of the black warriors renewed,
will witness the birth of what we have awaited so long,” declared the demon, in
a terrible voice that boomed off the walls causing Iska to cover her ears. As it
held the crucible higher, for the first time, she could see beneath its hood.
In the depths of the empty darkness that lay within, glowed two red eyes, like
coals plucked from the furnace, and they glowed with hatred and malice.

 Iska was by now curled into a ball with fear, but still she
could not look away.

The figure lowered the crucible and poured its contents in a
white-hot river into a waiting mould and as it did so, once again it spoke.

 “Meet your doom, sword of Erren-dar,” it proclaimed,
turning to look into a dark corner beside Cordis’s tomb. Iska almost cried
aloud when she saw what she had failed to notice before. There in the shadows,
free of its scabbard, hung the sword she had so long sought. It was suspended
in mid-air without any visible means of support, its graceful blade shining in
the light from the furnace. She had not realised it would be so beautiful.
Although it was innocent of ornament, apart from the three etched chalice
flowers, its shape and proportions were a perfect study in elegant, yet lethal
grace.

 Then the Demon of Darkness began a strange hypnotic litany,
with responses chanted by the kneeling forms of the black warriors.

 “For all that is fundamental to the order of the universe,
there is the law of two,” it intoned. “For all that directs the course of
eternity, there is the law of two. For life, there is found death.”

 “There is death,” chanted the three.

 “For love?”

 “There is hate,” they replied in unison.

 “For light?”

 “There is found darkness.”

 “For good?”

 “There is evil.”

 “For truth?”

 “There is falsehood.”

 “This sword,” said the demon, indicating the shining weapon
suspended in the air, “ broke that law. It gained power because it transgressed
that law. For it had no counterpart, no darkness. It was alone. It was unique.”

 “It broke the law of two,” chanted its acolytes.

 “Now that breach will be remedied, for it shall have its dark
counterpart, its shadow, and in its shadow it shall meet its fate, for its
shadow shall be stronger and shall overcome it.”

 With that, the figure in grey removed the still-glowing
metal from its mould and plunged it, hissing, into a vat of water. Steam
billowed everywhere, arising in dense clouds around the demon, almost obscuring
it. When the vapour subsided, Iska saw that the cooling metal emerging from the
water was, indeed, a sword. In every respect, except one, it was the
counterpart of the sword of Erren-dar. It was the same length, the same thickness
of blade, the same shape of hilt, but as it cooled, the one difference became
more and more pronounced – the blade did not shine, as its rival’s did. It was
not merely that it was dull - it was jet-black, with a darkness that was not
natural. Not just black steel, but something else entirely. It was the inky
depths of a bottomless well. It was the darkness of a night sky without stars.
It was the blackness that can only be found in a void where there is no light
at all, and only evil prevails.

 The grey figure, taking the burning-hot sword in its gloved
hand, carried it to an anvil and picking up a blacksmith’s hammer, began to
beat the metal with strokes of such terrifying force that the building seemed
to shake to its foundations. Again and again it struck the sword, tempering the
blade, sending showers of sparks to die on the cold stone floor. With each blow
it repeated the chant, the kneeling figures playing their part, until the whole
crypt reverberated with the sound. Iska could feel the power in the chant and
sensed that with each stroke of the hammer, that power was being forced into
the blade.

  At last, satisfied with its work, the demon held the sword
above its head, its red eyes glowing in unholy delight, and roared: “Witness
the birth of the black blade that cannot be defeated!”

 Iska could not prevent herself whimpering with terror.

 Suddenly, the demon swung round, its robes swirling about
it. “I sense a presence,” it snarled suspiciously.

 The three black warriors leaped to their feet and stared
into the shadows towards Iska. Together, they too, released a hissing sound
that Iska thought she had heard once before but could not identify.

 Desperate with fear, her whole body shaking almost uncontrollably,
Iska began to crawl rapidly away, keeping to the darkest corners. She dared not
stand up and, indeed, did not know if she had the strength to do so.

The black figures fanned out amongst the tombs, searching
every corner and hiding-place.

 “
I sense a presence!”
roared the demon.

 Iska crawled faster, ignoring sore knees, and reaching the
grille, wriggled through it, praying it didn’t squeak again. Once out, she took
a deep gulp of cool night air. Then hearing another roar from within the crypt,
she scrambled shakily to her feet and fled.

 In her blind panic, she forgot to head towards the boundary
wall but instead, acting on instinct, made for the safety of her room above the
stables.

 She ran with a speed only possible in those who fear for
their lives. Like a hunted hare, she shot across the grass, the trees of the
parkland flashing past her. Abandoning stealth in her desperate need to get as far
away as possible, she crashed through bushes, making a straight line for the
comfort of the brightly-lit windows of the servants’ quarters. Upon reaching
the outer edge of the complex, she still did not stop, but hurtled past the lamp-lit
windows and round the corner into the stable yard. She only halted when, in her
haste, she collided against the old wooden door of the tack room. Desperately
she clutched the familiar handle, holding onto it for support while she sobbed
for air. After a moment or two, her ragged breathing quietened and her
trembling subsided. Feeling a little reassured by the stillness of the night,
she crept to the corner of the stable block and peered back towards the
parkland, scanning the dark shapes of the trees for sign of movement. For a
long time she watched and waited, her keen eyes searching intently. She knew
that in their black clothes, the warriors would be difficult to spot, but Iska
had the instincts of a cat and waited patiently, noting every rustle of every
leaf until she was sure that she was not pursued. With a wave of relief, she
came to the conclusion that they hadn’t seen her.

 Drawing a deep breath to expel the last of her fright, she
was in the act of turning to leave, when a heavy hand descended on her and
grabbed her by the collar. She had already released a cry of sheer terror, when
a hatefully familiar voice spoke in her ear.

 “Well, what have we here?” it purred. “A little sewer rat,
it seems, running along its tunnels, getting into places it is not supposed to
be.”

 Mordrian, without releasing his grip on her, turned her
round to face him. She began to struggle, but soon gave up, knowing that it was
futile, for he was a powerful man, clearly in no mood to let her go.

 “The little rat has not been much in evidence lately, has
she?” he continued. “Or should I call you little thief? Horses mysteriously
disappear from my father’s stables. Items vanish from the palace. Food goes
missing from the kitchens. I wonder why that is? It’s quite a remarkable coincidence
that it only happens when you are around. Of course, I’m sure you have a very
good explanation as to why you are skulking around the stables at this hour of
the night?”

 Iska, with an inward flood of relief, suddenly realised
that he didn’t know where she had been.

 “I live here, brother dear,” she replied cuttingly.

 “Not for long you don’t,” he riposted. “Or have you not
been keeping up with events? No, I don’t suppose you have. After all, you only
consort with thieves and beggars, so what goes on at court probably passes you
by. The King is ill, and not expected to last much longer,” he informed her,
with remarkable lack of concern. “and then, little rat, we both know what
happens. You have been an embarrassment to me since the day you were born. If I
had been given my way, you would have been drowned in that horse trough within
an hour of your birth. A foolish old man’s mistake, bringing a noble line into
disrepute, that’s all you are. I have had to look at that mistake for twenty
years, but not for much longer. There will be no place in my kingdom for my
father’s bastard. Do I make myself plain?”