The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (53 page)

 The reunion of the company at the cavern of Sirindria Eleth
was a happy one. The moment Iska’s eyes fell on Vesarion, she dropped her pack
in astonishment, and forgetting her former ambivalence towards him, flew to
embrace him, astonished and delighted at his recovery. Eimer, less fortunate,
got grabbed by his exasperated elder sister and was treated much more roughly.
First he was comprehensively shaken, then in the voice of one whose patience
has been tried beyond endurance, she informed him that he was a graceless
n’er-do-well who had more lives than the proverbial cat. And finally, abandoning
her superior pose, she hugged him so fiercely he had to gulp for air.

 Only Gorm and Bethro remained on the periphery of the
group, pointedly ignoring one another. Bethro, who liked to be the centre of
attention, tried to break into the conversation,  but Gorm was happy to merely
gaze adoringly at Sareth from a distance.

 Everyone was talking at once, asking questions, recounting
anecdotes, but when Eimer managed to make his voice heard, he told the story of
the recovery of the sword.

 “They think we are still trapped in the city,” he concluded.
“and will be searching the streets for us for quite a while before they realise
they are wasting their time. At least it enabled us to get here unmolested.”

 “We left two days ago,” added Iska, “so my guess is that
just about now they are coming to the conclusion that we are no longer in the
city and they will start to widen their search.”

 Sareth sighed with relief. “Well at least they will have no
idea where we have gone.”

 But Iska’s next words banished her complacency.

“Unfortunately, that is not necessarily true. I have seen
Mordrian hunt fugitives before. With him, it is almost a kind of sport and he
keeps a pack of specially trained hounds for the purpose. He will be able to
get some of my clothes from my room above the stables and that will give them
the scent. So we have no time to waste. We must leave immediately and try to
reach a place where the dogs cannot track us.”

 Bethro, whose vivid imagination was already picturing a
pack of slavering hounds snapping at his heels, said tremulously: “Surely they
cannot follow us beyond the curtain? Surely once we are outside it, we will be
safe?”

 “Normally that would be true. But you will recall that we
had concluded that my brother must have found a way of controlling the curtain,
as he has to bring his army through it in order to attack Eskendria.”

“We got a glimpse of  his army on our way here,” Eimer
intervened, with unusual gravity, “and we also saw something that makes it
imperative that we return to Eskendria as soon as possible. Iska had to bring
us by a different route than the one you took, because we had to get Gorm out
of sight. We entered these wooded hills some distance to the north of here and
from their height we had a fine view over the plain of…..what did you say it
was called, Iska?”

 “The Plain of Irios.”

 Eimer swung round to directly address Vesarion, his
expression more earnest than his cousin had ever seen it.

 “They are assembling a mighty army, Vesarion, more numerous
that I had believed possible. Adamant is smaller than Eskendria, and so I had
thought that whatever happened, we could at least raise more men than they. I
had thought that the odds were bound to be in our favour, provided we could get
the sword back. But this is not the case, for in fact, there are
two
armies assembling on the plain. One from Adamant, and another unlike anything I
have ever seen before.”

 Vesarion was staring intently at him, his brows drawn
together. “What do you mean?” he demanded sharply.

 “We saw an army of warriors dressed entirely in black. Iska
said they were just like the figures present at the forging of the sword. They
wear full-face metal visors under hooded tunics. Their steel breastplates and
greaves are also black. A host of tents has sprung up on the plain in orderly
rows beside the army of Adamant. From the height of the overlooking hills, we
could see no traffic between the two camps, none of the usual activity one
would expect between two allied armies, but I think it clear that their purpose
is the same – to annihilate Eskendria.”

  “How many of these black warriors are we talking about?”
Vesarion asked curtly.

 “We estimated ten thousand,” Eimer replied. “Apart from the
fact that they are all attired the same, there is a strange uniformity about
them. They are all tall, about your height, and are all much the same powerful
build.”

 “Perhaps they are not men at all,” suggested Bethro.

 “They are the shape and size of a man,” Eimer returned.
“But although we watched for some time, none of us ever saw their faces. What lies
beneath those steel masks, I do not know.”

 Vesarion turned to the Turog, who had remained silent.

 “Do you know, Gorm?”

 He shook his head. “No. Gorm does not know what is behind
mask. All dressed in black, means they belong to Destroyer. Not good. Not good
at all.”

 A faint smile crossed Vesarion’s feature. “I think, my
friend, it will soon be proved that you have a talent for under-statement.”

 His eyes sought Sareth’s and she read regret in them. “It
seems that we must leave this beautiful place sooner than we expected.”

 Their gaze held for a long moment before she nodded sadly
in acceptance, and he turned to Iska.

 “Do you know a place where the dogs cannot track us?”

 “Yes, but before I tell you of it, there is something
important that must be done first.”

She looked at Eimer and they exchanged a nod of agreement.
The Prince knelt and unlaced something attached to one of the packs. He revealed
an object, long in shape, wrapped tightly in a blanket. With something
approaching reverence, he handed it to Iska. Every eye was riveted to her, for
they knew what it was. Bethro found he was holding his breath in excitement.

 Slowly, she opened the covering to reveal the sword,
closely encased in its leather scabbard. Balancing it across both her
outstretched palms, she held it out in offering to Vesarion.

 “This belongs to you, Heir of Erren-dar,” she declared.

 But her words provoked an unexpected reaction in Vesarion.

 “No!” he said sharply.

 Everyone stared at him in astonishment. Bethro was so
startled that he tumbled into speech.

“Indeed it does,” he hurriedly insisted. “I was its keeper,
its guardian, for a short while, but only you, as the grandson of Erren-dar,
can claim ownership.”

 Again, Vesarion stepped back, until the edge of the pool
stopped him going any further.

 “I have no right to it,” he said harshly.

 The rest of the company, with the exception of Sareth,
looked at one another in perplexity, unsure how to respond.

 Vesarion spoke again. “Return it to Eskendria, Eimer, for
it has a role to play there, but I cannot claim it as mine.”

 The Prince, aware that some sort of crisis had been reached,
asked one simple question. “Why?”

 “Because I did not recover it. You did. You have more right
to claim it than I do.”

 “That is not the whole story, is it Vesarion?” the Prince
asked quietly, remembering their past conversation. “I did not see your ordeal
at the Traitor’s Pillar that day, but Iska did, and she described to me all
that you underwent. Were it not for the fact that you resisted, and refused to
tell Mordrian what he wanted to know, we would all be incarcerated in some dark
dungeon awaiting execution by now, and the sword would be lost to Eskendria for
ever.”

 “You don’t know what you are saying, Eimer,” replied
Vesarion, angrily. “Do you think me brave? Well, don’t, because it is a lie.”

 Iska made to speak but he cut her short. “No, Iska. You
might have witnessed what they did to me that day, but you could not see into
my mind. You could not know what I was thinking, and I tell you now that….that
I was afraid. More afraid than I have ever been in my life.”

 The words came out as if they were wrenched from him. Once
more, Iska made as if to speak, but suddenly she felt Sareth’s hand press her
shoulder, restraining her.

 “From the moment they captured me,” continued Vesarion in a
tortured voice, “all during the time they were beating me, all during the time
at the Traitor’s Pillar and while I was sitting in my cell waiting to die in
the morning - I was afraid. And I, of all people, must know no fear. I am the
Lord of Westrin, the most powerful barony in the Kingdom. I am the heir of
Erren-dar, the greatest hero that Eskendria has ever known, a man of legendary
courage – and yet, and
yet,
I knew fear. So, you see, I cannot take the
sword, for to do so would be to live a lie. I cannot claim it because I am not
worthy of it.”

 Finally, Sareth released her grip on Iska’s shoulder and
allowed her to speak.

 “You are suffering under a misapprehension, Vesarion,” she
said. “You have misunderstood the nature of courage. You think that bravery
means having no fear, but you are wrong.”

 Eimer stepped in. “Actually, it means being dreadfully
afraid and yet facing that fear and doing what has to be done despite it. It is
not lack of fear that is the mark of courage but refusing to give in to it. For
without fear, Vesarion, there is no courage. Erren-dar fought the Great-turog
that day and saved the Kingdom, but nowhere does the legend say that in doing
so, he knew no fear. You condemn yourself in error, my friend.”

 “They are right, Vesarion,” Sareth confirmed. “You faced
your fears and conquered them. I was watching that day in the square, when you
knew very well what they were going to do to you, and you looked Mordrian in
the eye and defied him. I have never seen such steel in anyone before. You have
earned the right to take the sword, not because you are the descendant of
Erren-dar, but because of your courage that day.”

 They were all standing in a semi-circle before Vesarion and
the deep waters of the pool lay behind him, gently releasing little phantoms of
steam into the still air. In the moment of silence that followed Sareth’s
words, the sun found its way into the cavern and sent a fan of many slanting
shafts of light into the water of the pool turning it turquoise blue. It also
cast its light around the man standing motionless on its verge.

 To the others, standing in the shadows, it seemed almost
like a sign, for the light illuminated him like a descending blessing. Acting
instinctively, Iska stepped towards him and going down on one knee before him,
looked upwards into the sunlight and once more offered him the sword.

 “Take it, Vesarion,” she whispered. “You saved me from my
brother’s wrath. Never doubt yourself again.”

 For a long moment he looked down at her in silence, struggling
with something inside him. Then suddenly his brow began to clear, as if the
inner battle had finally been won. Reverently, he reached down and took the
scabbard in both hands and lifted it into the light.

 As Iska stepped back, her eyes shining, his fingers closed
around the plain, leather-bound hilt. How familiar it felt. How perfectly the
shape of the hilt fitted in his hand.

 And all at once, a feeling of intense joy swept through him
and all his doubts were gone. Through every nerve, muscle and sinew it flooded,
until he was suffused with it.

His hand tightened on the hilt, and in one fluid movement,
he swept the sword from its scabbard. The blade gave a brilliant flash as it
encountered the sunlight on its polished surface. He held it out before him,
marvelling at its perfect balance, noting the chalice flowers incised below the
hilt. This was the first time he had ever held the sword but somehow it felt as
familiar as his own arm. He remembered the day in the Ivy Tower in Addania,
when  he had looked at its imprint on the velvet cushions and had almost felt
it in his grasp, and now it was just as he had imagined it to be.

 Smoothly, he swung the sword sideways, slicing it through
the air, watched delightedly by his friends, every one of whom, even Gorm, was
smiling by now.

 He could feel its elegance, its manoeuvrability and the
cutting power of its fine edge. It was  as if only now he had at last come to
realise, that all these years, his hand had been empty without it.

 Iska stood looking at the Morass of Engorin with a sense of
dismay. All during the course of their flight from Adamant, they had been
straining every nerve to reach this place ahead of pursuit, and now that they
had finally arrived, it looked hopeless. What lay before her was a tangled area
of open water, sometimes shallow and dotted with drowned trees and tall reeds,
at others, laced by deep channels, their course marked by water lilies. It was nothing
less than a flooded wilderness, stretching as far as the eye could see.

 She was only too aware that it had been her advice that had
brought them here, to a place she had never been before but had deemed suitable
on the basis of some old maps found in the library by Callis. To have trusted
in them, in retrospect, seemed like folly, for they were over a thousand years
old, dating from the time of the Old Kingdom, and things had obviously changed
since then. What had been described merely as a marshy area on the map, was now
a drowned land, stretching into infinity until it merged with an ephemeral mist
that hovered on the edges of distant vision. In the grey light, it seemed a
dismal place, but worse than that, it seemed to her to be impassable. The areas
of shallow water were clearly interspersed by lakes, home only to waterfowl.
Even the trees were inundated. Spindly willows stood up to their knees in
water, or had given up the ghost altogether and collapsed into the flood. The
only faint ray of hope was the occasional small island of dry ground, rising
proud of the surrounding chaos, bearing woolly crowns of densely packed trees.

 How they were to proceed, she knew not, but proceed they
must, for her irate brother was right on their tail. In that respect, at least,
her advice had proved accurate. Mordrian had, indeed, hunted them with dogs -
and hunted them relentlessly. The Cavern of Sirindria Eleth, hidden and remote
as it was, would have provided no sanctuary for them. Realising that speed was
all that would save them, the company had left the cave within a hour of her
warning. But she knew that two at least of their number were loath to go. While
the others were loading their belongings onto the two horses, Sareth and
Vesarion had drifted away and had stood together for a long time beside the
blue waters of the pool. She was too far away to hear what passed between them,
but she saw Sareth hang her head, as if in grief, and Vesarion reach out and
touch her cheek with the backs of  his fingers, in a gesture that was so
unconsciously loving that it informed Iska, as nothing else could have, that
they had come together at last. Nothing had been said. No announcement had been
made. But as the company travelled across Adamant, hurrying in the darkness to
reach the tear in the curtain, Iska noticed that they always walked in step
with one another, and she knew, with joyful certainty, that all was well
between them.

 Yet, unexpectedly, witnessing her friend’s happiness brought
about a sense of isolation in Iska. Loneliness descended upon her, becoming
more and more acute as she left the land of her birth behind her.

 They had  passed through the Curtain of Adamant shortly
after sunrise and had begun to ascend the mountains once more, this time by the
Pass of Ogron, when they had detected the sound they had all been dreading to
hear – the hysterical yapping of hounds that have caught a scent. Looking back
from their vantage-point, they had seen a swarm of dogs streaming across the
countryside, followed by many men both mounted and on foot. All were heading
with the directness of an arrow in flight, towards the old willow tree. When
they reached the curtain, the dogs became uncertain, confused by a barrier they
could not see, but after an initial halt, the cry went up again as the pursuit
party found the gap in the tree. Those on foot were soon pushing the dogs
through, one by one. A mounted man, his back straight, his stance commanding,
had halted a little apart from the confusion and was looking upwards towards
the mountains, shielding his eyes from the low beams of the climbing sun. Even
from a distance, Iska knew with deadly certainty who it was. Mordrian had once
told her that no one was permitted to defy him and get away with it, and Iska
knew his pursuit of them would be merciless. If only they could stay ahead of
the dogs long enough to traverse the pass, they had a chance. They would
attempt to confuse their hunters by turning east, instead of taking the more
direct southerly route towards Eskendria that she had followed on her outward
journey. Once deep within the Morass of Engorin’s wild embrace, it was hoped
that the water would cause the dogs to lose the scent. But that depended on
them getting far enough into the wilderness to be out of sight. It mattered
little if the dogs could not track them, if they were still in plain view to
their pursuers. Several times in the high passes between the peaks, they had detected
the faint echo of the tracking hounds, but with an heroic effort, especially on
the part of Bethro, who found high altitudes a strain, they had kept their
lead. Indeed, for the last few hours, they had heard nothing of the dogs and
deduced that those who hunted them must have actually fallen further behind.

 But now? Now it looked as if she had lead them into a trap.

 Vesarion, who had happened to notice Iska standing in
isolation, staring dismally at the water, crossed to her and stood beside her,
staring out across the vapour-wreathed water, saying nothing.

 It was Iska who finally broke the silence.

 “I have led you all astray this time,” she said miserably.
“Perhaps I have become arrogant in believing that my advice is infallible. What
a fool I was to rely on those old maps, and plot a course of which I have no
personal knowledge. What was once merely an area of boggy ground, has now
become a huge expanse of flooded land, and I do not know how we are to cross
it.”

 “The map showed islands dotted across the swamp, did it
not?” he asked

 “Yes, but…”

 “Then although the low-lying ones may now be under water,
it is likely that the higher ones will still be there and it is on those that
we must rely.”

 She sighed. “I suppose we have no choice but to try to cross
it?”

 “None. We can’t go back and it’s too big to go around.”

 “I’m sorry, Vesarion.”

 “There is no need to be sorry, Iska, for there is nothing
else we could have done.” He remained looking speculatively at her, before
venturing: “I think you are in low spirits because it is beginning to sink in
that you can never return to your home. In the rush to escape from Adamant
ahead of Mordrian, you had no time to consider the effect of your actions, but
now you are beginning to realise that you have paid a heavy price for helping
us.”

 She nodded, touched by his understanding. “I know that
sometimes I was not very happy there, but it is all I have ever known. The
thought that I will never see Callis again is….is…” Her voice tailed off in
distress.

 He looked at her with compassion. “I owe you my life, Iska,
as do we all. We are not merely your friends, we are now your family. When we
reach Eskendria, you will begin a new life – a happier one, I hope.”

She turned a tormented face to him. “But I am of the House
of Parth! How can this be? I will not be accepted. I will be distrusted, blamed
for the crimes of my clan!”

 “You will not,” he said determinedly. “You will have my
protection. Being lord of the greatest barony in the Kingdom has its
advantages. Heaven help anyone who threatens you while you are under my care. I
want you to know that you have a home at Ravenshold for as long as you want
it.”

 She looked up at him gratefully, but suddenly a little
glimmer of mischief darted into her eyes. “You mean, with you and Sareth?”

 “Ah!” he laughed, caught by surprise but making no attempt
to deny it. “You know, do you? I suppose Sareth told you.”

 “No, there was no need, for you betray yourself every time
you look at her. I’m not
blind
you know!”

 But at that moment, their words were cut short by an
unwelcome sound carried on the still air – the baying of hounds.

 They both froze, listening intently. The noise came and
went. Sometimes faint snatches reached them, at others, the silence descended
again, broken only by the piping of water birds far out on the marshes.

 “They are still distant, I think,” concluded Vesarion
softly, letting go of the breath he had been unconsciously holding, “but we
must be out of sight by the time they arrive, and unfortunately progress
through such a terrain will be slow. I have asked Gorm to cut some long poles
from the willow trees, to test the depth of the water. If one of us suddenly
stepped into deep water, burdened with a heavy pack, no matter how good a
swimmer they are, they would stand no chance.”

“Em…I’m guessing this would not be a good time to tell you
that I can’t swim.”

 “People seem to get the urge to tell me that at
inappropriate moments,” he grinned. “However, it scarcely matters, as swimming
is not a viable alternative. We either wade, or we sink.”

 As it turned out, Iska was not the only one worried by the
inability to swim. Gorm had cut some willow rods and trimmed them neatly with
his small axe, but he, too, was now standing on the last patch of dry land,
dubiously surveying the water.

 “Well, Gorm, old fellow?” said the Prince brightly. “Why so
glum? You look like the cat has died.”

 “Haven’t got a cat,” replied Gorm, ever literal.

 “You don’t fancy the idea of a swim then?”

 “Can’t swim. Deep water no good.”

 “Don’t worry, the poles you cut will help us avoid it. I
know you’re a bit on the short side for this performance, but never fear, I
won’t let you drown.”

 The Turog’s response to this assurance was to look
sceptical and move a bit closer to Sareth.

 It was soon seen that his doubts about the terrain were
fully justified, for even the tallest member of the group found the going hard.
In fact, only the irrepressible Prince appeared undaunted.

 “This is like old times, isn’t it Sareth?” he declared
cheerily, wading through a patch of sedge grasses, up to his knees in greenish
water. “Thanks to Terebar, we spent quite a lot of our misbegotten youth in the
moat. He had it down to a fine art how to judge the exact spot where he could
ditch us directly into the water. I suspect that Vesarion had trained him to do
it.”

 He managed to extract a laugh from her. “I remember. I also
remember having to fish you out of the river the day Enrick decided to give you
a hiding, and in your haste to get away, you fell off the bridge.”

 Vesarion rolled his eyes at Iska. “You have no idea what a
handful those two used to be.”

 But the Prince corrected him. “Sareth is
still
a
handful. If you ask me, you have the courage of a lion, Vesarion – and don’t
look so surprised. It’s perfectly obvious, even to an idiot like me, that you
two have finally come to your senses.”

 Vesarion looked at Sareth, struggling along behind him and
raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

 “Have you any idea what he’s talking about?”

 She shook her head, biting back a smile. “No idea at all. I
think his dissolute life is taking its toll on his brain.”

 “I have an announcement to make,” declared Bethro, who,
being some considerable distance in the rear, had not heard their conversation.
“I am being
bitten
!”

 “So am I,” replied Vesarion, slapping his hand irritably
against the back of his neck. “This place is alive with midges.”

 “But they
itch
!” wailed Bethro, as if he expected
someone to do something about it.

 “Try reasoning with them,” suggested Eimer flippantly. “Or
you could stand down-wind of Gorm, then they certainly won’t touch you.”

 The Turog, always a little unpredictable in what he found
funny, gave a bark of laughter at that.

 Unfortunately, their light-heartedness lasted but a moment.
Barely had their laughter died away, than the sound of the pursuing dogs could
be heard once more, this time, closer than ever.

 They had been heading for a small, wooded island some
distance out in the marshlands, that loomed a little indistinctly through the
nacreous veils of mist, but the going was slower than they had anticipated.
Sometimes they were wading through water that was only ankle deep, but then,
suddenly, Vesarion’s searching rod would plunge into deeper water and they
would find themselves up to their thighs – or in Gorm’s case, his waist.
Moreover, the water was choked with vegetation. Dense swathes of water lilies,
their glossy, plate-like leaves curling up at the edges to reveal russet
undersides, jostled for space in the deeper channels. Tall stands of
heavy-headed bulrushes blocked their way and stately golden reeds rustled
together like conspiring courtiers, even though the air was still. Each step
had to be carefully tested with the willow poles. Each inch of the treacherous
ground hidden below the water, had to be probed for depth and solidity. Without
any order being given, the company had drifted into single file in their usual travelling
order, with Vesarion out in front, divining their path, and Gorm bringing up
the rear. Twice Vesarion had to abandon a route he was attempting because the
water was getting too deep, and in some despair, he began to wonder if they
would ever reach the island, never mind negotiate the entire swamp. Every so
often, he would raise his eyes from his task, scanning the seemingly endless
expanses of the morass, to where its edges blended seamlessly into the
encircling mist. He recalled that Iska’s copy of the old map showed islands of
varying sizes dotted across the region. It had been his intention to pass from
island to island, but a map already shown to be inaccurate in one respect,
could be inaccurate in others, and he was by no means as sanguine about their
chances as he had led her to believe.