The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (56 page)

 The centre of the forest was occupied by an extensive
clearing, ringed by close ranks of trees. Above it hung a perfect circle of
blue sky. The clearing was occupied by many circular wooden houses topped by
conical roofs, thickly thatched with reeds. The roofs swept down so low to the
ground, that the houses contrived to look as if they were being pushed into the
earth. Outside every door hung fishing nets, spread out to dry. Longbows and
lighter hunting bows were common, leaning against walls or under repair,
indicating how this remote community survived. A woman, sitting on a bench
outside a house, busily plucking a goose, looked up from her task as they
passed but when Sareth smiled at her, she did not return the smile.

 In the centre of the clearing, stood a building identical
in design to all the others, but many times larger. The golden thatch of its
roof rose high against the sky, from the apex of which trickled a thin wisp of
smoke. The only means of entrance was a single wooden door flanked by heavy
posts deeply incised with chalice flowers. Sareth, catching Vesarion’s
attention, flicked her eyes significantly towards these symbols, and he nodded
in understanding. Their guards abruptly ordered them to halt in the open area
just before the door. Eimer, who alone of the companions hadn’t understood the
order, tried to carry on, and was hauled back by the collar like an over-eager young
dog.

 The excited calls of the urchins died away, and they stood quiet
and round-eyed, looking at the door. Even Eimer managed to grasp that something
of importance was about to happen.

 A handsome, middle-aged man, his dark hair lying on his
shoulders, emerged from the doorway. In his hand he carried a tall, ceremonial
staff, its head carved like a water lily.

 “This is the council hall of the Khaldor,” he announced
formally. “Who seeks admittance?”

 One of the guards indicated the prisoners. “These
strangers, trespassers on our land, seek the judgment of the Khaldor.”

 The man slowly surveyed the small group before him, one by one.
His eyes rested the longest on the small, hooded figure, squirming against its
bonds.

 “Who will speak for you, strangers?”

 Every eye turned to Vesarion, who was forced to resign
himself to being volunteered.

 “I will,” he said, stepping forward. “I wish to present our
case to the Khaldor.”

 “Very well. How will the Khaldor address you?”

 “I am Vesarion, Lord of Westrin,” he said, instinctively drawing
himself up to his full height.”

 “Follow me, Lord of Westrin.”

 With a swift, reassuring glance at the others, Vesarion
followed the man into the dimness of the hall. After the glory of the sunshine,
it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

 The hall was large and perfectly circular, but its floor-space
was dwarfed by the size of its roof. The conical space, lined with the golden underside
of the thatch, rose above the hall to an impressive height. Although there were
no windows, it was not dark, for a diffused light filtered its way downwards
from two openings set high in the thatch. The openings were guarded by tilting
covers operated by ropes tied to a central supporting pillar. Near this mighty pillar,
sat a large brazier, glowing redly, giving off the pleasantly acrid scent of
wood smoke. On the far side of the hall stood a heavy table flanked by many
carved wooden chairs. At the head, stood a larger, more imposing chair draped
with black fur, and upon this impressive seat, reclining at his ease, was the
Khaldor. His hair was long and iron-grey, but his brows were as dark as the fur
cloak spread over his broad shoulders. Although no longer young, he retained a
certain vigour and an almost tangible air of command. A pair of shrewd blue
eyes were set amongst a nest of wrinkles, and were assessing the man before
him. It was the sight of these lines that, strangely, gave Vesarion hope, for
they could only have been caused by habitual merriment, and such a thing sat
ill with cruelty.

 The usher approached the Khaldor and whispered something
long and involved in his ear, before retreating to the doorway.

 “Approach, Lord of Westrin,” instructed the Khaldor and
indicated that he should take a chair at the opposite end of the table.

 “I am informed,” he continued, “that you and your
companions were found on one of the outer islands last night by a hunting
party. I am also informed that you brought with you a Turog, a tool of the
Destroyer. It seems that you were driven into the land of the Perith-arn by
necessity. Prince Mordrian knows nothing of our existence, but I know something
of him, and I believe he is not a man that one would wish to antagonise. Do I
have these facts correctly?”

 “Yes,” replied Vesarion, a little unsure of the correct
protocol. “That is correct, my lord Khaldor.”

 “I am no lord, stranger. When a Khaldor dies, his successor
is elected by the elders of the three tribes. We have acknowledged no king
since the last High King of the Golden Kingdom, who fell before the invading
hordes of the Destroyer.”

 “That was over a thousand years ago, and yet you still
speak the language of the Old Kingdom.”

 “So do you, it would appear.”

 Vesarion shook his head. “It is not my native tongue. In my
country, it is a dead language, taught only so that one may read the ancient
texts such as the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom or the Lays of Tissro the
Wanderer.”

 “Where is your country?”

 “I am Eskendrian. My country lies far to the south of here,
beyond the Great Forest, across the river Harnor. It was once a province of the
Old Kingdom and was the only part of it not to fall to the Destroyer. Over the
years it has become a kingdom in its own right, but ever it is harried and
attacked by the creatures of the Destroyer. I fear he sees its existence as a testimony
to his failure to wipe out the Old Kingdom entirely.”

 The patriarch tilted his head a little to one side,
considering this. “Other elements of the Old Kingdom survive – Adamant, for
example.”

 “Adamant survived because the House of Parth gained
immunity from attack by assisting the Destroyer in his attempt to eradicate
humanity. They exist because they betrayed their own kind.”

 The accusation caused such little surprise that Vesarion
suspected that the Khaldor had known this all along and was testing him.

 “We have no dealing with Adamant. Normally, they stay
behind their magic wall and do not trouble us, but of late, some have begun to
emerge. It is rumoured that the invisible shield begins to fail. Their Prince
could not have come to our lands unless there was truth in this. So that brings
me to the question of what exactly you have done that is so heinous that it has
brought Prince Mordrian beyond the bounds of his kingdom?”

 “The Prince stole a mighty talisman from Eskendria, in the
hope of weakening the Kingdom prior to invasion. As we speak, he is assembling
a great army which will soon cross this land on its way to make war on my
country. My heinous crime, as you call it, was to take the talisman from him
again.”

 The Khaldor signalled to the usher, who left briefly and
returned carrying Vesarion’s sword. Almost reverently, the man set it down on
the table before the patriarch.

 “Is this the talisman of which you speak?”

 For the first time, Vesarion hesitated, unsure whether it
was wise to reveal this or not. But he looked into the eyes watching him so
steadily across the table and knew that a lie would be detected.

 “Yes, it is.”

 “A sensible decision,” was the revealing reply.

 The Khaldor gently withdrew the sword from its scabbard
just far enough to reveal the incised flowers.

 “The sacred symbol,” he murmured. Then turning his piercing
gaze on Vesarion once more, he said: “This is the only reason you are still
alive. This is the only reason you have been given the opportunity to plead.
For whoever you are, and whatever your reason for coming here, no creature of
the Dark Prince would carry such a thing. However there is one amongst your
company whose presence contradicts the meaning of this flower. There is one
amongst you who owes no allegiance to it.”

 “I once felt as you do. Indeed, I still hold all Turog to
be my enemies – except for one. In a tower far to the south of here, we
encountered the last of the sages, the last of the Brotherhood of the Sword,
and he told me that goodness can be found anywhere, in any race or clan, and to
my astonishment, against all my initial prejudice, Gorm has proved himself
loyal and true. He has abandoned the service of his former master and devoted
himself to us. And although it still seems strange, even in my own ears, to
hear myself saying this, I trust him.”

 “I remain to be convinced,” replied the patriarch dryly. “I
think, perhaps, Lord of Westrin, that it is time for you to tell me the story
of your quest to retrieve this beautiful sword.”

 So Vesarion did as he was asked, reliving it all, sometimes
surprising himself as he related the events of their journey, by how much his
experiences had changed him. As he spoke, he found himself opening up more and
more, as the sense grew in him that this man possessed both wisdom and insight.
The only thing he kept from the Khaldor, simply because it was too close to his
heart, was his love for Sareth.

 His audience did not interrupt or question him, nor, when
he paused occasionally to collect his thoughts, was he prompted to continue.
The patriarch just sat quietly, caught in the dusty golden light as it
descended from the ceiling, watching the play of emotions and recollection
across the features of the man before him. He watched with the  intense
concentration of someone who knows that they must not err in their decision.
And as he did so, the Khaldor began to sense, ever more strongly as the story
progressed, that lies were foreign to this man.

 When at last Vesarion ground to a halt, his emotions deeply
affected by all he had related, he looked his silent listener in the eyes,
wondering if such a strange tale would be believed.

 “So now, Vesarion of Westrin, you hurry home to warn your
country that war is about to be unleashed against it.”

 “We have little time to prepare. Every day’s warning that
we can give, could mean the difference between destruction and survival.”

 “Tell me,” the Khaldor asked consideringly, “even if all you
have told me is true, why should any of it matter to the Perith-arn?”

 Vesarion knew that they had come to the crux of the issue
and he must tread very carefully.

He leaned forward across the table and stretched out his
hand towards the sword.

 “Because of
that
,” he said with utter conviction.
“Because of the chalice flower and all that it stands for. I would guess that
when the Old Kingdom fell, some of its people fled to these marshes and took
refuge here from the hordes of Turog sweeping the land. And here you have
stayed, in isolation and secrecy, passing down the language and traditions of
your ancestors from generation to generation.”

 “What of it?”

 “You hold true to the Book of Light, as does Eskendria, but
if my country falls, this land, as well as mine, will be overrun by Parth, by a
clan still so loyal to their master of old, that they meddle with such agents
of evil as the demon I told you of. And what of this other army that is
forming? An army of black warriors who hide their faces? I cannot tell you what
lies behind those masks, but I do know this – they, too, serve the Dark Prince
and as such, they are as much your enemies as mine. If this army is victorious,
there will no longer be any place where you can hide. Prince Mordrian will rule
all this land from Adamant to Eskendria and then secrecy will avail you nothing,
for all will be within the shadow and power of the Destroyer.”

 The Khaldor was silent for a moment and Vesarion knew that
his words had made an impression. Finally he asked: “And your tame Turog? What
of him?”

 “I ask your leniency for him alone. All other Turog that
cross my path are my foes, and I will readily slay every one of them with the
very sword that lies before you.”

 The Khaldor said nothing but stood up, and walking slowly
over to the brazier, stared into its glowing depths. The hall was very quiet. Motes
of dust floated languidly in the honeyed light descending from above.
Distantly, Vesarion could hear children playing, but this normal sound seemed
to make the silence, the sense of waiting, even deeper. All his hopes were
concentrated on this man, for not only had he pleaded for his own life and the
lives of his companions, but perhaps for the very survival of Eskendria.

 The Khaldor remained lost in thought, staring into the fire
for a long time. At last, he roused himself and turned back to his captive.

 “You have told me many things, Vesarion of Westrin, and
although your tale is strange, I think you are no liar. However, I must judge
what is the safest and wisest course for my people. The fate of Eskendria is
not my foremost consideration. For me, the survival of the three tribes is of
paramount importance and it is upon this that I must base my decision. This is
not a matter, therefore, to be decided in haste. I wish to take counsel with my
elders and in the morning you will know your fate. Until then, the Turog must
remain imprisoned but you and your companions are free to roam this island –
just do not attempt to leave it.”

 He nodded to the usher, who approached Vesarion.

 “This way, my lord,” he said, shepherding him towards the
door.

 Looking back, Vesarion wondered if there was more he should
have said. But seeing the figure in the black cloak, his head bowed with the
gravity of what he must decide, he knew there was nothing more to be done.
Everything they had fought for, struggled for and suffered for, lay in the
hands of this man.