The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (55 page)

 Still, no one spoke. The silence was broken only by the
ominous creak of tensioned bowstrings. Vesarion’s eyes came to rest on an older
man who, from his bearing and the magnificence of his fur cape, seemed to be
the leader.

 “Who are you?” he asked.

 The older man stared stonily at him for a moment, then leaning
towards the man standing by his side, said in the Old Language: “What did he
say?”

 Surprised, Vesarion deftly switched to the same language
and repeated his question. “I asked who you are?”

 The man looked at him levelly. “Ei’ath Perith-arn,” he
replied.

 “What does that mean?” whispered Eimer to Bethro, for the
first time regretting his refusal to study.

 “He said - ‘
We are the Lost Ones’
.”

The man’s attention never wavered from Vesarion. “You have
trespassed onto our lands and have brought great evil with you, and for that
you must die.”

 “It is our law that strangers must be brought before the
Khaldor.…”

 “
Patriarch, or wise one
,” translated Bethro in an
aside to Eimer.

 “…..who will decide their fate, whether they are worthy to
live, or must die. But in your case, your fate has already been decided, for
you have committed the crime of bringing into our lands that which we most
abhor.”

 He fixed his attention on Gorm, who had been facing the
bowmen aggressively, nailed boots set apart, short sword in his hand, yellow
eyes watchful.

 The man continued, undaunted by the baleful stare he was
receiving.

  “You have brought this creature, a Turog, spawn of the
Destroyer, into our realm and for that, you have forfeited your lives.”

 As he finished speaking, every bow turned in the direction
of Gorm. Vesarion, sword raised, stepped in front of the Turog, shielding him.

 Their captor was unimpressed. “If you wish, stranger, you
may be the first to die.”

Unexpectedly, it was Gorm who replied. He emerged from
behind Vesarion and said in his usual gruff manner: “Vesarion brave man. Not
die for Gorm.” Carefully, he laid his sword and axe down on the carpet of dead
leaves and looked steadily upwards with his sulphurous eyes.

 “Let friends go,” said he, revealing an unexpected
understanding of what was going on.

 For the first time the man showed surprise. “
Friends?
”
he repeated incredulously. “The Turog have no friends amongst the Children of
Light, for your master, the Dark Prince, set enmity between them for all
eternity. If you have found friends amongst human kind, then they, too, must be
his servants.”

 “I once thought as you do,” intervened Vesarion. “I once
believed that the Turog were capable by their very nature of nothing but
cruelty and wickedness, but I have been forced by experience to make one
exception. This Turog has proved himself loyal and true, indeed, he has even
risked himself to save my life. Not very long ago, if someone had told me that
I would trust a Turog with my life, I would have thought that they had taken
leave of their senses, but nonetheless he is now a member of our company and
without him our mission would not have succeeded.”

 “What mission?”

 “I will explain that to your Khaldor.”

 The man stood weighing him up. “What language were you
speaking earlier?”

 “We call it the modern tongue. It derived originally from
the language of the Old Kingdom but over the course of the millennia it has
changed much.”

 “You are not of Parth?”

 “No. We are from Eskendria,” replied Vesarion, deeming it
not the time to go into Iska’s ancestry.

 “I know nothing of this Eskendria of which you speak. What
I do know is that you are being hunted by Prince Mordrian of Parth. The Prince
has lost your trail for the moment, but I want to know why is he so desperately
pursuing you?”

 “Once again, I will give a full explanation of that to your
Khaldor.”

 For the first time, the man seemed a little amused. “You
seem very determined to last the night, stranger.”

 “Would you not be? However, it is no trick. What I have to
tell your patriarch is of great importance to your people, as well as mine.”

 Once again the man silently considered him, the matter
clearly finely balanced in his mind. Alas, he decided to err on the side of
caution.

 “You may very well be lying,” he declared sceptically. “I
will not risk being deceived by a servant of the enemy. I think it safer for my
people if I kill you.”

 Vesarion, wishing fervently that he had a shield, raised
his sword still further until the tip was pointing directly at the man who thus
condemned him.

 “We are no servants of the enemy,” he said in a steely
voice. “But I can promise you, that I will bring you down before the first
arrow is loosed.”

 However, his adversary’s attention was no longer upon him.
Eyes widening in wonderment, it had fastened on the blade of the sword pointed
threateningly at him. The last of the fading light, finding a chink between the
encircling trees, had shone on the polished blade, illuminating with startling
clarity, the chalice flowers engraved upon it.”

 “Your sword bears the sacred symbol,” he breathed. “No
follower of the dark arts would carry such a thing.”

 “I have already told you that we do not serve the
Destroyer. You may know nothing of Eskendria, but in that Kingdom, we adhere to
the Book of Light.”

 Gorm, over whose head all this talk had washed unheeded,
had with all his usual tenacity, not lost sight of the important issue.

 “Not kill friends,” he interrupted stubbornly.

 The man suddenly came to a decision. “That is for the Khaldor
to decide,” he sharply replied. “I fear this is a matter beyond my wisdom.” He
turned to Vesarion, still facing him defiantly. “Lower your sword, Eskendrian.
You will be taken to the patriarch tomorrow and he will decide your fate. I
should warn you, that he has great acuity, and if you lie to him, he will know
it. Deceit is not a veil behind which you can hide and I suggest you do not try
to employ it. We are a hunting party and are some distance from our home, as we
have strayed a little closer to the margins than is usual with us. This island
is unoccupied except for the warning figures that so startled the young woman.”

 “What do they warn against?” asked Sareth.

 “I should have thought that was obvious. They warn
intruders that they enter our lands at their peril. I am Teneth, leader of the
third tribe. If you surrender your weapons now, you have my word that you will
be taken unharmed to the principal island to present your case. Until the
Khaldor makes his judgment, you are our prisoners.”

 Reading doubt in Vesarion’s eyes, he added dryly: “The
choice is a simple one. You either submit, or die where you stand.”

For a tense moment, Vesarion did not react, aware that his
companions all had their eyes riveted to him, waiting to take their lead from
his response. Then slowly, acknowledging that for all his bravado, he had
little choice, he nodded agreement, and they all lowered their swords to the
ground.

 At the signal, the bowmen moved in upon them and stripped
them of their weapons and packs. A howl of anguish went up from Gorm, as his
pouch of treasures was taken from him.

 “No!
No
! Not take Gorm’s treasures!”

 Rendered suspicious by the commotion he was making, Teneth
emptied the bag onto the ground and was almost ludicrously disappointed by the
motley selection of bits and bobs. Only one thing caught his interest. It was a
beautiful little silver box edged with turquoises.

 Vesarion cast a fulminating glance at the distraught Turog,
as much annoyed by the fact that he hadn’t even realised that the box was
missing, as by Gorm’s inability to resist it.

 “That’s mine,” he said curtly.

 Teneth examined it admiringly. “What does the engraving on
the lid say?”

 “It says ‘To Vesarion from Meldorin – may it prove useful’.
Meldorin is our king.”

 Teneth closed the lid respectfully. “It appears, Vesarion
of Eskendria, that your king holds you in high regard.”

 If Teneth appeared to be thawing a little in his attitude
to Vesarion, the same could not be said of poor Gorm.

 Their captors were treating him roughly. His arms had been
pinned behind his back, his wrists tightly bound, and a sack was pulled over
his head.

 Sareth tried to protest, but was cut short.

 “Be thankful that you are not in a similar state. Our
people are few in number and survive by secrecy. It would therefore not be wise
to allow our enemy to gain intelligence of our camping sites or villages.

 So while his companions walked free, surrounded by an armed
escort, Gorm stumbled along, pulled by a rope, blinded by the hood and cursing
in his own strange language as he tripped over roots.

 Their camp was on the far side of the island and they
reached it just as darkness fell. The cloudy skies had cleared unnoticed and
the first few delicate stars began to pierce the firmament. Although there was
no moon, the surrounding waters glimmered, reflecting back the starlight, so
that they were able to make out that the encampment consisted of several
beehive-shaped structures made of bent willow wands, covered neatly in sewn
skins. Gorm was not privileged to enter one of these shelters, but was instead,
stuffed into a small wooden cage. The others were directed into the largest
shelter and their possessions, except for their weapons, were restored to them.
However, security was not relaxed. Eimer, attempting to go outside, was
unceremoniously shoved back again. They all looked at one another blankly, as
if unsure what to do next.

 Bethro spoke in a low voice, for fear of provoking the
guards. “You are going to have to make a very persuasive case tomorrow,
Vesarion,” he cautioned. “When you appear before the Khaldor, you will be
pleading for our lives, and from the level of hostility directed against us, I am
far from hopeful. If it were not for the rodent, our chances would have been
better.”

 However, Vesarion rounded on him angrily and in a fierce undertone,
said: “Let me remind you, Bethro, that the rodent offered to give his life in
exchange for our freedom.”

 Unassuaged guilt made Bethro over-sensitive to Vesarion’s
displeasure, and so abashed was he, that when food was thrust through the door
flap, he uncharacteristically ate little and said less.

 That night, Vesarion and Sareth lay close beside one
another in the smothering darkness, listening to the steady breathing of their
companions, but they, too, said little. Vesarion knew Sareth had become fond of
the little Turog and was worried for him, but there was little he could say to
comfort her. Even though he had been irritated with Bethro, he knew in his
heart that the tactless librarian was right. He guessed that over the years
these secretive people had been  hunted and harried by the Turog, and now their
hatred for them was such that even if he could persuade the Khaldor to let his
human captives live, the chances of obtaining the same privilege for Gorm were
slim. Vainly he sought in his mind for a way to save the Turog, but tiredness
curtailed his thoughts. He was just in the middle of rehearsing in his head a
long and strangely tangled speech, when he fell asleep.

 The morning found the Morass of Engorin totally
transformed. The captives were allowed out of their shelter just as the new sun
was climbing above the horizon. The pale sky was blushing and the sun cast long
golden beams horizontally across the waters, turning the distant veils of mist
pearlescent, dusted here and there with shades of pink and mauve. Several long,
flat-bottomed boats were moored by a wooden landing stage that was so cleverly
concealed amongst the reeds that it was almost undetectable. With practiced
speed, the shelters were taken down and all their possessions were stowed
neatly on the boats, until every sign of human presence on the island had gone.
Gorm, who had survived the night in some discomfort, was once more hooded,
trussed up like a chicken and deposited with evident distaste on the floor of
one of the boats. The others were split up between several boats, with brother
and sister in one, and Vesarion and Iska in another. Bethro, never exactly
sure-footed, nearly overset one of the fragile craft and was so comprehensively
sworn at, that his knowledge of the Old Language expanded considerably. The
boats were propelled by a single long oar at the back, operated by a standing
oarsman. It also, should the need arise, doubled as a punt. Soon they were
gliding smoothly along through the patches of reeds, ever deeper into the
swamp.

 What had seemed a dismal place under the leaden skies of
the day before, now shone with a wild and lonely beauty peculiar to itself.
Iska, seated behind Vesarion, looked around her with interest, noting the
abundant bird life. Wild geese bobbed on the waters and overhead the sound of
whistling wings could be heard, signalling the approach of a flight of snowy-white
swans coming in to land. Most beautiful of all were the water lilies. They were
everywhere; their stiff, waxy-white blooms set off by the perfect foil of their
glossy leaves. Many times the boats passed between them, close enough for the
occupants to see the rich golden stamens nestling within their virginal
embrace. Little moorhens tiptoed delicately across the lily leaves, their light
steps barely disturbing them, and dragonflies, resplendent in ruby or azure
stripes, hovered above them on clear, glassy wings.

 Vesarion, enchanted by it all, looked towards the boat
bearing Sareth, and catching her eye, received a smile that told him that she
shared his delight.

 Twice they came within sight of wooded islands, but the
oarsmen did not stop. They charted a course that took them deeper and deeper
into the drowned land, until Vesarion realised, with a sense of alarm, that he
no longer knew the way back.

 Finally, skirting a tall stand of bulrushes, their dark
heads quivering in the light breeze, they emerged to see a much larger island
ahead of them, floating serenely on a glassy area of open water across which
small, white clouds chased their reflection.

 As soon as the boats touched the landing stage hidden
amongst the reeds, the captives were hustled ashore and escorted by the
huntsmen into the shadows of a forest of beech trees. As they progressed, they
gathered up a curious crowd, all dressed in the greys and duns favoured by the
Perith-arn, that rendered them invisible amongst the reeds. Children raced in
and out of the trees, calling to one another in excitement, and Sareth guessed
that strangers were very much a novelty. Half a dozen dogs, entering into the
spirit of things, joined in with enthusiasm until they caught the scent of
Turog. Abruptly they stopped in their tracks, sniffed the air suspiciously,
then uttering shrill howls of alarm, shot off into the trees.