The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (54 page)

 Now, once more, the hounds of Prince Mordrian had picked up
their trail, and just when speed was most needed, their frustratingly slow
progress through the water left them utterly exposed. One glance at the leaden
sky above, informed him that night was too far away to be of any help, neither
was the mist dense enough to offer succour, so grimly he fought on.

 The frantic yapping grew closer and he knew that their
pursuers would soon be in sight, yet he could not increase the pace, as a
plunge into deep water would have spelt disaster. The island had begun to appear
more solid as they drew closer, yet it was still tantalisingly out of reach.
Looking behind him at the line of struggling companions, he came to a decision.

 “We are not going to make it to the island in time,” he
called to them. “They will be upon us at any moment. Our only chance is to get
to that tall clump of reeds to our left and hope that they are dense enough to
hide us from unfriendly eyes. With any luck, the dogs will be rendered fairly
useless by all this water. At least we have the advantage of being a good
distance out from the shore.”

 But as they turned in the direction of the reeds, the water
got suddenly deeper, moreover, a dead tree had fallen in the water directly in
their path, its half-hidden branches forming a tangled trap in which it would
have been all too easy to have become ensnared.

 Gorm was by now up to his chest in water and despite
valiant efforts, was making little headway. Eimer and Bethro, seeing his
difficulties, were forced to catch him under each arm and drag him forwards.

 All the while the ululation of the dogs grew ever louder.

Vesarion, looking back periodically over his shoulder
towards the shore, negotiated a passage through the tangled maze of the drowned
tree and held out his rod to guide the others. Sareth and Iska, following his
lead, were soon amongst the concealment of the reeds, but Gorm, ruthlessly
towed by his rescuers past the fallen tree, suddenly gave a cry and disappeared
under the water. At the same instant, over the rim of the low hills that
bounded the swamp, appeared a stream of hounds, streaking down the hillside,
closely followed by many men on foot, running to keep up with them. Vesarion
noted with a certain grim satisfaction that, like them, Prince Modrian had been
forced to abandon his horses at the curtain. Clearly the small gap in the old
willow tree had done them a favour.

 With a gasp, Gorm surfaced. “Pack caught!” he spluttered.

Eimer, aware of their fate closing fast upon them, snapped:
“Get into hiding, Bethro. I’ll deal with it,” and began to struggle to free
Gorm, his hands tugging desperately at something under the water.

 Vesarion, who had been keeping a close eye on their
hunters, now only a short distance from the edge of the marsh, said sharply:
“Leave it, Eimer. Get amongst the reeds –
quickly!
Gorm, keep your head
down amongst the branches of the tree and don’t make a sound.”

 The two men disappeared into the reeds, leaving Gorm
clinging to the tree, his head barely above water.

 Crouched amongst the golden reeds, they listened as the
high-pitched yapping grew in volume and intensity as the dogs became ever more
certain of the scent. Their handlers were by now straining to keep up with them,
as they tore down the last stretch of hillside to the water’s edge. But when
they arrived at the brink, the steady sound of pursuit collapsed into chaos, as
the dogs began to mill about in confusion, running this way and that along the
bank, suddenly unsure of the direction. Sareth, peering between the reeds, saw
a tall, dark figure catch up with the disordered scene and start issuing
instructions. She glanced enquiringly at Iska and received  a small nod of
confirmation. Prince Mordrian, it appeared, was tenacious in the extreme. He
began dividing those under his command into smaller groups, two of which he
sent in both directions along the bank and the others, more dangerously, into
the swamp. Within a few paces, the dogs were out of their depth and had to be
sent back, but driven on by their Prince, the men began to fan out and advance
into the morass. Several came to grief by falling into deep water, for they had
not taken the precaution of cutting poles as Vesarion had done. The rest,
learning their lesson, began to use their swords to test the depth and slowly
but inexorably, they drew closer. As they approached, Gorm sank under the
water, until only his nostrils were above the surface. The others shrank down
even further into the reeds. The Prince was now so close to their hiding place
that Vesarion could see the well-remembered cruelty and arrogance on his face.
The memory of their last meeting burned in his mind. He saw once more, the
gloating expression of satisfaction on his tormentor’s face, as Ursor delivered
blow after brutal blow. He relived once more the sense of helplessness of
having his hands bound behind his back. Vesarion was not a man accustomed to
feeling helpless, and despite himself, he began to burn with anger. A hard knot
of rage was tightening in the pit of his stomach. He was not by nature a
vindictive man, but the desire for revenge had taken hold of him as it never
had before in his life. Through the golden curtain of the reeds, he watched the
man who had inflicted such suffering upon him and brought him close to death, and
his anger grew by the moment. Without realising what he did, his hand sought
the hilt of his sword and tightened around it. He could almost see those cold
amber eyes that had mocked his pain. Without even being aware of what he was
doing, he slowly began to draw the sword of Erren-dar from its housing.

 The slight scrape of steel alerted Sareth. She caught the
look of cold vengeance upon his face, so intense that it was almost
frightening. He did not notice her, for every fibre of his being was concentrated
upon his enemy, as smoothly he continued to slide the sword free of its
scabbard. Sareth knew she must act swiftly or disaster would descend upon them
all. She quickly reached across and placed her hand warningly over the hard
fist closed around the hilt. His head swung sharply towards her, as if he was only
just aware of her presence. Their eyes met, and although daunted by the anger
she saw in them, she gave a tiny but emphatic shake of her head. She held that
searing gaze for what seemed an eternity. For a moment she thought he was going
to shake her off, but slowly she saw the ire begin to die from his eyes, as
good sense reasserted itself. Reluctantly, he slid the sword home again. But as
his glance bored through the reeds towards his enemy, Vesarion silently vowed
that some day they would meet again, when the odds were not weighted in the
Prince’s favour.

 However, they were not rid of Prince Mordrian yet, for after
halting to survey his surroundings, he appeared to fasten his attention on the clump
of reeds. He turned towards them, and with several of his men, began to wade in
their direction. As they drew close to the sunken tree behind which Gorm was
practically drowning himself in an effort not to be seen, the small Turog took
a deep breath and sank noiselessly beneath the surface. Staring upwards through
the water, he could see the wavery outline of the men busily stabbing the water
with their swords. One came within a whisker of him but he held his nerve and
remained submerged. They were by now past the tree and only a few paces from
the reeds. Those of the fugitives who were armed, had their hands on the hilts
of their swords, determined to sell themselves dearly, when suddenly Mordrian
said:

 “The water is getting too deep here. Try in that
direction.”

 Eimer pursed his lips and  let out a silent whistle of
relief. Cautiously, like a toad emerging from hibernation, Gorm quietly
surfaced again.

 For three nerve-wracking hours, the search continued.
Several times the searchers came close but were, at the last moment, deflected
by the deeper waters. At last, as the overcast afternoon began to wane, the men
were recalled to the shore and set off along the bank in an easterly direction.

 When they had gone, the company forsook their hiding place,
tired and cramped from crouching for so long, and went to Gorm’s rescue. When
his pack was freed from the branches, he surfaced, soaked to the skin and
shivering uncontrollably.

 “D-d-don’t l-like s-swamps,” he stammered.

 “Come on,” said Eimer. “We must try to make it to the
island and get you onto dry land before nightfall.”

“I’m afraid we can’t risk lighting a fire to dry you out,”
Vesarion said apologetically.

 “D-don’t care. Just w-want out of w-water.”

 Never had solid ground seemed so welcome. Six weary and
soaking fugitives dragged themselves out of the cold water onto the reassuring
firmness of the little island. Its slightly rising dome was crowned with tall
trees of a very different nature to the spindly willows trying to survive in
the swamp. They were mostly beeches and oaks of such impressive height that
they were clearly of a great age. Their dense canopy almost met overhead,
rendering the fading light of approaching evening even dimmer.

 Yet to Sareth, the little island had a strange atmosphere.
There was something secretive about it that made her feel like an intruder. Perhaps
it was the silence, unbroken even by the call of a bird. Perhaps it was the
stillness, for not a leaf trembled. It was hard to define, but something seemed
almost a little eerie. She appeared to be the only one aware of it, for the
others were busy wringing the water out of their clothes and shedding their
packs onto the ground. Leaving the shore, Sareth, drawn by curiosity, ventured
further into the trees. The shadows lay deep and silent. The trees almost
seemed as if they were waiting for something. Unavailingly, she told herself
she was being ridiculous, but the feeling would not leave her. After a moment,
she turned to face back the way she had come, and discovered that her
companions were no longer in sight. Although she had only gone a short distance,
the trees had closed around her and nothing could be seen of them. In an
attempt to get her bearings, she took a few paces backwards and without warning
collided with something solid. She spun round, to discover herself staring into
a horrible face, twisted with malice. She gave a cry of alarm, recoiled
violently, caught her heel and fell on her back amongst the dead leaves with
such force it knocked the breath out of her. Desperately she groped for her
sword, only for her hand to freeze on the hilt. The face was not pursuing her,
and for a very good reason - it was not formed of living flesh, but of wood. A
life-sized figure was carved into the trunk of a tree in raised relief.
Scrambling to her feet, she realised that she had backed into a circle of
ancient oak trees, each carved with a different figure. They writhed and
twisted against the trees, some with bared teeth, others with bulging eyes, but
all exuding the same air of menace.

 At that moment, Vesarion came crashing through the
undergrowth into the clearing, closely followed by Eimer, both with their
swords drawn.

 “What is it?” he asked her urgently. “Are you all right? We
heard your cry. What’s wrong?”

 Sareth began to look a shade sheepish. “ Em….I’m beginning
to feel a bit of a fool. I backed into one of those wooden figures, and in the
poor light, thought it was real, and..er..screeched a bit.”

 “She used to do the same thing every time she saw a
spider,” said her brother helpfully.

 Vesarion was grinning. “Never mind. Just as long as you’re
all right.”

 When Bethro and Iska arrived, they began to inspect the figures
in fascination.

“I can see how they scared you,” said Iska. “They are
utterly frightful. How could someone carve mere wood into such demonic shapes?
I wonder what their purpose is?”

 “Ceremonial, I would imagine,” declared Bethro, who had no
idea, but didn’t like to be without an opinion. “They appear to be very
ancient.”

 But Eimer contradicted him. “Bethro, they can’t be very
ancient, because they are carved into trees that are still growing.”

 “Maybe they are magic,” suggested Gorm, who was sitting
down in the middle of the clearing emptying water out of his boots.

 Eimer, remembering his encounter with the wooden head in Sorne,
looked at them with wary respect.

 “I don’t care what they’re for,” announced Sareth roundly.
“I’m not sleeping in this glade tonight. They are enough to give one
nightmares.”

“Em…..” began Iska.

“I wonder who carved them?” Vesarion asked.

“Em…..” tried Iska again

 “Well, whoever they are, I don’t want to meet them,” said
Eimer. “The Destroyer himself could not have produced something that looked
more evil.”

Iska finally made her voice heard. “Er…I don’t think that
your wish is going to be granted, Eimer,” said she, tensely. “Look!”

 A tall young man had emerged from the trees at the edge of
the clearing as silently as a ghost. His dark hair was long, lying loose on his
shoulders. He wore leather trousers bound below the knee with criss-crossing
strips of hide, and over his dark green shirt, he wore a short cape of some soft
grey fur. More interestingly, he carried in his hands a longbow, with an arrow
held casually at the notch. Eimer and Vesarion, who had not sheathed their
swords, instantly raised them again, unsure whether they were confronted with
friend or foe.

 For a tense moment no one moved or spoke. The young man
seemed unperturbed by their weapons. He remained staring at them inscrutably
with his dark eyes.

 Then, as quietly as dew falling on a summer’s evening,
dozens more men, armed exactly like him, emerged from the trees in a circle
around them. The companions backed together into the middle of the clearing. In
a moment the glade was bristling with arrows, all targeted upon them. Vesarion
knew their swords would avail them nothing but, nevertheless, stood his ground.