The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (57 page)

 The slim young man they had met on the island the day
before, turned out to be Teneth’s son, Demeron, and he seemed to have taken a
shine to Eimer. Upon Vesarion emerging from the council hall, he found them
deep in amicable conversation. A reluctant Bethro had been coerced into
translating and they seemed to be getting along magnificently. It took little
to establish the source of Eimer’s enthusiasm, for there, perched on his arm,
was a beautiful hunting falcon, its talons gripping the leather glove lent to
him by its owner.

 “Look, Vesarion!” called Eimer happily. “Is he not
impressive? I have a peregrine at home, but not as beautiful as this bird. Demeron
tells me that he has taught him to respond to whistles rather than the lure.”

 Vesarion looked at Sareth in patent disbelief. “I have just
been in there for the entire morning trying not only to persuade the Khaldor
not to execute us, but to allow us to continue on our journey, and all Eimer
can think of is falconry!”

 She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know why you are
surprised. You have, after all, known him since he was born!” Jerking her head
discreetly towards the hall, she asked: “How did it go?”

 “I’m not sure. He will give us his decision in the morning.
I think he believed me, but he is concerned for the safety of his people. I
think he will only decide in our favour, if he can be made to see that his
interests lie with ours.”

 Demeron proved a pleasant host, taking them on a tour of
the island and answering all their many questions.

 Bethro asked him what the Perith-arn hunted, for he had
been eyeing enviously the rich furs that were much in evidence.

 “Beaver, mostly,” was the reply. “But also waterbuck.”

 “I suppose you catch many otters.”

 But the young man looked aghast. “No! Most certainly not! Otters
are the guardians of the waterways, they must never be harmed. Such a thing is
unthinkable.”

 Thrown a little out of his stride, Bethro whispered to
Iska: “A primitive, superstitious people, it seems.”

 Despite their fate hanging in the balance, Eimer’s ability
to live in the moment was infectious, and they enjoyed their afternoon of  hawking
and fishing. As the quiet shadows of evening began to fall, they arrived back
at the landing stage where many of the slender boats were still tied up.

 Eimer, presuming on his new-found friendship, remarked
jauntily: “One of those would certainly assist us on our journey. Much better
than wading through reeds or falling into holes.”

 “This boat belongs to me,” Demeron said, indicating one of
the smaller ones. “Should the Khaldor decide in your favour, I might be
persuaded to part with it, but what could you offer me in exchange?”

 Taken aback, Sareth said: “We have some money. I don’t know
if it would be enough.”

 “Coins are of no use to me,” replied Demeron disdainfully.
“We do not use them here. Instead we barter one thing for another.”

 “What do we have that you could possibly want?” Eimer
asked.

 The young man’s eyes came to rest on Iska. “Her,” he said bluntly.

 “What did he say?” asked Eimer, as Bethro’s translating
skills had been shocked into silence.

 Vesarion’s face grew stern. “We do not barter people,” he
said severely.

 “Neither do we. But the circumstances are exceptional.”

“What does he want?” again asked Eimer, tugging urgently at Bethro’s
sleeve. When he got a translation, his reaction was unexpected. He caught a
startled Iska by the waist, pulled her smartly to his side, and casting a
challenging look at Demeron, said curtly: “She’s with me.”

 The response was not exactly as expected. Demeron threw
back his head and roared with laughter. “Never did I see a fish rise more
readily to the fly!” he chuckled, wiping his eyes.

 Vesarion’s stern expression relaxed and he began to grin.

 “What did he say?” asked Eimer of his sister.

 “He said you are an idiot,” she paraphrased, her shoulders
shaking.

 “Besides,” continued Demeron, casting a critical eye over
Iska, “ many of the girls of the three tribes are prettier than she is.”

 Iska, struggling to free herself of Eimer’s hold, swelled
with indignation. “Did he just say that I’m not pretty?” she asked him
rhetorically.

 “Why are you asking me? I have no idea what he said.”

 “And what do you mean by announcing in that patronising way
–
she’s with me
?”

 “Well, I thought…..”

 “But you don’t think, Eimer, that’s the problem.”

 Nettled, Eimer shot back. “I’m not taking that from a chit
like you.”

 “
I’m
not the one who has just been made to look a fool!”

 “Oh-oh,” said Sareth rolling her eyes comically. “Let us
depart and leave them to enjoy a good row in peace.”

  As they followed Demeron up the path towards the village,
the sound of raised voices followed them the whole way.

 One of the quaint beehive shelters had been erected for
them on the edge of the village and they retired to it that night, aware that
they were still discreetly under guard. Sareth had attempted to see Gorm but
had been refused, and now lay awake in the darkness beside Vesarion that night,
concerned that the little Turog might be hungry or in pain. She wondered if Vesarion
had managed to convince the Khaldor to let them live, or whether the decision
in the morning would go against them. Everything hinged on that decision. Not
only their own lives, but the lives of so many now living at home within the
boundaries of Eskendria, whose safety was but an illusion. Nearly three months
had passed since they had crossed the Harnor, and their disappearance must seem
like a mystery to those they had left behind. She thought of her grandmother
and all the wise advice she had given. She recalled how Queen Triana had almost
forced her to go with Vesarion, on what had seemed at the time like a rather
dull visit to Sorne. Now, if she returned to Eskendria, everything would be
different. Her future was secure. Enrick could harm her no more, for she would
have a home far away from him in the fortress of Ravenshold,  protected by the
man she loved.

 A loud snort from Bethro unromantically interrupted her
thoughts. As she lay contemplating the idea of getting up to turn him on his side,
she drifted off to sleep.

 But the dream came again to her that night. Once more, she
saw herself kneeling on the trodden grass of a battlefield and Vesarion lay as still
as death in her arms. Once more, she saw that he was dressed for battle, in
full armour except for his helmet. The sword of Erren-dar rested in his hand
and beside him lay his shield, much dented, bearing the crest of Westrin. His
face was utterly drained of colour, grey with the approach of death, and on the
edge of his armour, there formed one huge ruby drop after another, each falling
to join the pool of blood on the ground.

 With a gasp of sheer terror, she awoke, the dream more real
to her than her present surroundings.

 She felt Vesarion’s hand close upon her arm in the
darkness.

 “What is it?” he whispered. “You are trembling. What’s
wrong?”

 “Nothing,” she whispered back. “It was just a bad dream,
that’s all.”

 “What was it?”

 But she refused to tell him. “It was just a stupid dream.
It’s not worth repeating.”

 He did not press her, but he knew that something had
seriously frightened her, for her trembling did not cease. Suddenly she flung
her arms around him and burying her face against his neck, whispered with quiet
desperation: “Don’t leave me Vesarion. Please don’t ever leave me.”

 He felt her tears against his skin and tightened his arms
around her.

 “What’s all this about?” he asked gently.

 “Just promise me you will never leave me,” she wept softly.

 “Of course I promise. You should not need to ask - unless,”
he added, with the idea of lightening her mood, “that was an obscure way of
proposing to me.”

 He managed to elicit a watery chuckle in response, and
encouraged, he continued smoothly: “You see, it has just occurred to me that I
have not formally asked you again. I just sort of took it as implied.”

 “
Implied!
”

 “Sssh! You’ll wake the others.”

 “Typical man!,” she murmured in mock dudgeon. “
Implied
,
indeed!”

 “Well then, Princess Sareth of Eskendria, I can’t exactly
go down on one knee at the moment, but would you consider signing a binding
contract with your humble servant here?”

 “I’ll think about it.”

 He grinned in the darkness. “Well don’t think too long because
I’m much in demand, you know. Besides, the only reason I ask, is that I’ve been
searching all my life for a woman tall enough to kiss without actually breaking
my neck.”

 To his delight, she responded with a smothered laugh, but deep
in his heart he was still troubled, for he knew that his promise might only
last as far as the morning.

The awaited decision did not come in the morning as
anticipated. Their guards escorted them to the open area that lay before the
council hall to receive the verdict, just as a sleepy sun began to heave itself
above the horizon. But nothing happened. After several hours had passed, during
which not only the captives, but also their guards, ended up walking in
restless circles, the door finally opened to reveal the usher, staff in hand.
The supplicants tensed, for he looked grave. Bethro’s ruddy cheeks noticeably
paled.

 “There has been a delay, Lord of Westrin,” the usher said
sombrely. “A meeting of the elders was convened yesterday evening and they have
been deep in discussion about your fate throughout the night. It might interest
you to know that the elders are evenly divided in their advice to the Khaldor.
Half of them wish to spare you, the others consider you a risk to our people
and are of the opinion that you and your companions must die. I fear you may
have some time to wait before the result is known.”

 “Does the Khaldor wish me to speak to the elders?”

 “No. You have presented your case. There is no more you can
do. Our law may seem severe to you, but there have been times in our past when
our survival has hung by a thread. We are not numerous enough to withstand an
attack from a great kingdom such as Adamant. We have only been able to keep the
Turog at bay by using our superior knowledge of these marshes to pick them off
one by one. Secrecy, therefore, is our surest weapon.”

 “I wish that I could convince your elders that we mean the
Perith-arn no harm. Indeed, we would see you as our allies in our fight against
the Destroyer.”

 “Great battles are not for us, stranger, but I understand
your desire to warn your king of this impending peril. I wish you well, but the
decision does not lie with me.”

 Sareth, who had been listening, asked apprehensively: “If
the decision goes against us, how will….I mean, in what way will….?”

The usher anticipated the unfinished question. “Your throats
will be slit. Every man amongst us is a skilled huntsman. I assure you, you
will feel nothing.”

 In response to this comforting assurance, Bethro turned
even paler and abruptly sat down and put his head between his knees.

“I could give you more cause for hope, were it not for the
Turog,” continued the usher, looking at the anxious faces around him.

 When he had returned to the hall, Vesarion and Sareth, sat
down beside one another on a wooden bench. Without a word being spoken, their
hands met and clasped tightly together.

 After the torment of another hour of waiting, at last the
usher re-emerged and signalled them to enter the hall.

 The same diffused sunlight filtered down through the thatch
above. The same brazier gently glowed, sending up a thin spiral of blue smoke.
But some things had changed. The table had been moved to one side and all its
chairs, now occupied by the elders, stood in a semi-circle facing the captives.
The Khaldor sat in his great chair in the midst of his advisors, and as they
approached, he rose to his feet and drew his fur cloak more closely around his
shoulders. Vesarion noticed that the sword of Erren-dar was propped against his
chair, and he looked at it longingly.

 “Strangers,” began the Khaldor formally, “long have I and
my brother elders debated your fate. Not lightly do my people take a life,
especially those of our own kind. We acknowledge that you are of the Children
of Light, descended, as we are, from the peoples of the Golden Kingdom. Yet the
Perith-arn survive only by secrecy and thus every outsider who knows of our
existence, represents a threat. This we must balance against all that you,
Vesarion of Westrin, have told us. Our neighbours in the Kingdom of Adamant
know nothing of us, but we keep a close watch on them, and in recent months
they have begun to emerge in small numbers from behind their protective screen.
This, and the presence of Prince Mordrian in our lands, lends credence to all
you have told me. If the Prince, acting as envoy of the Destroyer, crosses this
land to make war on Eskendria and succeeds in bringing down the last surviving
remnant of the Old Kingdom, then I fear that the Perith-arn will not survive.
Our isolation will be at an end. The Prince, in his greed for power, will not
spare the three tribes from subjection to his will. It has therefore been
decided that our survival is allied to the survival of Eskendria. It is my
judgment that you, Lord of Westrin, and your companions, be released unharmed.
Moreover, you will be provided with the means to speed your mission to give
warning to your country.”

 Sareth released a pent-up gasp of relief and Iska suddenly
felt her knees go wobbly. Eimer, more forthright, gave a whoop of delight and
clapped his long-suffering translator on the back. But just as Vesarion was in
the act of stepping forward to thank the elders, the Khaldor held up his hand
to restrain him.

 “However,” he said solemnly, “there is another matter to be
decided – the fate of the Turog. You have made a case for its life to be spared
and although you were eloquent, we remain unconvinced. This creature was
created by the Destroyer to be used as his tool in eradicating humanity. It
therefore cannot be trusted with the secret of the Perith-arn and must be
executed.”

 “No!” cried Sareth. “No! Please don’t do this! He is not
like other Turog. He has shown himself utterly devoted to us. He has risked
himself again and again to help us – even fighting his own kind to do so. Please,
I beg you, do not do this.”

 The Khaldor considered her, not unkindly. “I am no longer
young, daughter of Eskendria. I have fought the Turog on many occasions and in
all that time I have seen nothing in them but cruelty and the desire to slay
mankind. What you say makes no sense to me, or indeed, to any of us.”

 Tears were by now flowing down Sareth’s cheeks and he
looked at them in wonder.

 “You would weep for this creature? You would actually shed
tears at the thought of its demise?”

 She nodded, brushing the tears away with her hand. “He has
always shown great affection for me, and I have grown fond of him.”

 The Khaldor and all the elders, stared at her in disbelief.
Yet Vesarion sensed something stirring in the atmosphere and wisely said
nothing.

 Gorm was not enjoying his stay with the Perith-arn. He knew
a few words of the Old Language and that, together with observing the gestures
and expressions of those around him, enabled him to piece together what was
going on. He knew he was in trouble, but reposed an almost obsessional faith in
Sareth’s ability to get him out of it. However, since arriving at the large
island, he had seen little of her. He knew she had tried to visit him, because
his sharp ears had overheard her arguing with his guards, but she had not
succeeded and he was left alone in his cage. His only visitors had been a group
of small children, who had sneaked past the guards and stood staring at him
with a mixture of fascination and fright. Gorm had allowed himself the small
pleasure of scaring the wits out of them. He had slowly bared his impressive
set of teeth, shot out his claws and issued a bark that had scattered them like
leaves before a gale. He then sat back on his heels shaking with unholy glee,
but his moment of bliss did not last long. His guards, thinking he could not
understand them, had discussed his fate amongst themselves. Although Gorm could
not follow all they said, he clearly understood the words ‘Turog’ and
‘execute’. He also gathered that his beloved Sareth was in danger, too, and
that was a state of affairs he had to do something about.

 His chance came at noon the day after their arrival. A
guard approached his cage bearing a bowl containing the same disgusting slop
that they had given him the night before. The man stuck a spear between the
bars of the cage, forcing the Turog to back away from the door before he opened
it, and tossed in the bowl. However, when he left, Gorm noticed one small but
intensely interesting detail – the latch on the cage door had not been fully
secured. He cast a shifty glance towards the guards. They were standing in a group
a short distance away, deep in conversation. The latch was beyond his reach, so
looking around for an implement to assist him, Gorm spotted a stick lying a
little way beyond the bars of his prison. However, even by stretching out his arm
to its furthest extent, it was still a tantalising fraction beyond his reach.
It then occurred to him that one of the advantages of being a Turog was to be
the proud owner of an impressive set of talons. Out his claws shot and in an
instant the stick was his. Stealthily he set to work on the latch and a few
moments of frantic prodding produced results. The cage door swung open and in
an instant one small Turog was amongst the trees, heading towards the landing
stage as fast as his short legs would carry him. He had no very clear idea
about what he intended to do, other than the vague notion that he would steal a
boat and then sneak back under cover of darkness to rescue Sareth.

 No sound of pursuit followed him as he pounded along the
path between the reeds, but just as he reached the landing stage and untied a
boat, he heard a man’s voice behind him.

 “Stop, Turog! Stand where you are!”

 Gorm whirled round, claws once more extended. There on the
bank above him was a tall man, one of the Perith-arn, and more alarmingly, he
had Sareth in his grasp. He had twisted her arm up her back and was holding a
knife to her throat.

 “Do not move, Turog,” he commanded in a stern voice.
“Surrender yourself, or I will slit her throat.”

 Gorm bared his teeth and gave a soft growl of anger.

 “I mean it,” warned the man, pulling Sareth’s head further
back. “I swear, Turog, if you take one step towards that boat, I will kill
her.”

 Again Gorm issued a threatening snarl.

 “Don’t listen to him, Gorm,” Sareth cried. “They mean to
kill you. Get away from here! Quickly!”

 Gorm looked at the boat bobbing beside him on the water,
then he looked again at Sareth and his shoulders slowly drooped in resignation.

 “Not kill Sareth,” he said to the man. “Gorm gives in.”

 With that, he retracted his claws and stepped away from the
boat. Slowly he began to climb the slope towards the man. When he stood before
him, he looked up, his yellow eyes inscrutable. “Let Sareth go. Kill Gorm
instead.”

 The man released Sareth and looked down at the small Turog
in amazement.

“I would never have believed it!” he exclaimed. “Had I not
witnessed it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it.”

 “You see?” Sareth said to her erstwhile assailant. “All I
told you about him is true.”

 By this stage, Gorm’s eyes were bulging in his head in his
efforts to make sense of events.

 “Sareth not afraid of this man?” he asked uncertainly.

 “No, Gorm. It was a test – and you passed it
magnificently.”

 As she spoke, the Khaldor, his elders and the rest of the
company emerged from the concealment of the trees.

 Gorm, whose mental processes had been working at maximum speed,
announced suddenly: “Guards not careless. Let Gorm go on purpose. Wanted to see
if Gorm is good Turog, or bad Turog.”

 Eimer grinned delightedly. “That was a very long speech for
you, my small friend, but you are perfectly correct.”

 “The Turog are our enemy, and always will be,” said the
Khaldor to Gorm. “I cannot accustom myself to thinking of them otherwise, but
you had the opportunity to escape and instead were prepared to give your life
in exchange for Sareth’s. That is no small thing – even amongst humans. Some
day, Turog, you will die, no doubt at the hand of mankind, but it will not be
today and it will not be at the hand of the Perith-arn.”

Addressing  Vesarion, he continued: “I am prepared to
release this creature into your custody, provided you give me your word that he
will remain hooded until you are out of sight of this island.”

 “You have my word, Khaldor.”

 “I am placing more trust in you, Vesarion of Westrin, than
in any other person who has strayed into our lands, but I feel in my heart that
you will not fail me. We will provide you not only with a boat but also with
provisions. If you follow my directions, in four days you should reach the
south-eastern shore of these marshes, and from there it is a mere two day’s
journey to the Wood of Ammerith. You carry with you the fate of two nations, my
friend. May Yervenar give you speed.”

 Iska sat as if in a dream, watching the sunlit waters slide
past her. The large island had by now disappeared from sight, and Gorm had been
released, spluttering with indignation, from his hood, and was now sitting as
close to Sareth as the narrow boat would permit. On Iska’s lap lay a cape of
soft, grey fur which had been her parting gift from Demeron. Once the promised
provisions had been deposited in the boat and Gorm, hooded and bound, released
into their charge, Demeron had approached her just as she was about to step
aboard, and had given her the cape.

 “This is to apologise for my rudeness, Iska,” he said
wryly. “My only excuse is that I felt it was about time that Eimer had his eyes
opened.”

 To her relief, he did not seem to expect a reply, but had
handed her into the fragile craft. He had stood watching them, long after all
the other Perith-arn had gone, until their boat disappeared from view amongst
the reeds.

 Now Eimer, who showed great adeptness with the oar, was at
the back of the boat propelling them along through the tall forests of reeds
and out into more open stretches of water, bordered by the ubiquitous white water
lilies. As Iska ran her hands over the soft fur, she realised to her surprise,
that she was a little sad to leave the Perith-arn.