The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (63 page)

 The expression on Vesarion’s face had changed once they
reached the place of his birth. The stern look that had been present ever since
he had heard of Enrick’s perfidy, had softened with affection. Although every
rock and tree was as familiar to him as his own hand, he looked at them with
renewed pleasure, as if seeing them for the first time. Yet the look made Iska aware
that his devotion to this land meant that whoever had usurped his place, had a
deadly opponent on his hands.

 The fortress of Ravenshold still bore the imprint of its
original function – to defend the border against incursions by the Turog, and
was, indeed, a little daunting. A hard fist of rock projected from the valley
floor and upon this the fortress brooded, its tall towers circled by the birds
that gave it its name. Once, it had stood on its prominence isolated and alone
but now a village had sprung up at its roots. Unlike Sorne, the principal town
of Westrin was situated some miles to the south, safely away from the frontier,
but as the Turog withered from being a credible threat, to merely annoying
renegades, a few hardy souls had begun to construct houses within the shadow of
the castle’s walls. Now, a fair-sized village had emerged, complete with
smithy, bakery and an inn that belied its relatively recent construction by
being so covered with ivy it looked as if it had grown there.

 Iska, looking around her with interest as they made their
way up the cobbled street, found it a pleasant place. It drowsed quietly in the
warm sunshine, the only very active inhabitants being a group of children
playing with a dog on the village green. Their activities made her smile, for
the dog had made off with their ball and was good-naturedly frustrating their
attempts to recover it, by running around a tall wooden structure that
supported a bell.

 Yet although their cries of laughter echoed down the quiet
street, over everything fell the shadow of the mighty castle. A  ramp, cut into
the living rock, steeply ascended to its gateway, where a yawning archway
revealed the steel bars of a portcullis that was forbiddingly lowered. Iska,
tilting her head to look up at the castle towering above them, saw a stronghold
far removed from Forestfleet. No homely state of decay here. It looked ready,
and more than capable, of withstanding the most determined assault. How the
four of them were meant to take such a formidable redoubt into their control,
was a matter beyond her comprehension.

 They passed the forge, ringing with the sound of hammering
and came to a halt outside the inn. The landlord, with the sixth sense
exclusive to his profession, instantly knew he had potential customers and bustled
into the cool, dark hallway just as they entered. He surged forward to welcome
them, wiping his hands on his apron.

 “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. What can I offer you?
Accommodation for the night? A tasty meal? Perhaps a glass of something cool to
quench your thirst?”

 But at that moment, the tall stranger who had been the last
to enter the inn, came into the landlord’s field of vision. The man’s eyes
widened in shock and he staggered back a pace or two.

 “It cannot be! My lord, is it really you? They said you
were dead!”

 “Don’t worry, Rhinn, I am not a ghost. I was detained in
the Forsaken Lands for some time, but as you see, I have returned all in one
piece.”

 “And thank heaven for it,” exclaimed the man fervently.
“Right sorely you have been missed, my lord. Every one of us will be glad to
see you back in charge again, for this new lot,” he said, jerking his thumb derisively
towards the castle, “are a bag of thieves and bullies.”

 “Times have been hard?”

 “Indeed they have, my lord. This new crowd take what they
want, but they do not pay. Parents will no longer send their daughters to work
at the castle, such misbehaviour has been going on. Every maid in the place has
left and the only woman who stayed is old Mistress Elwyn, who would not be
removed as your housekeeper even if an entire army of Turog descended. That
commoner, Berdis, can try to call himself Lord of Westrin if he likes, but no
one else will call him that. Everyone is very punctilious about addressing him
as ‘steward’ just to annoy him. No, my lord, there is no Baron of Westrin
except you. I cannot begin to tell you the joy it will bring to see you back
again.”

 “I take it that this state of affairs is the reason why the
village is so quiet.”

 “Indeed, yes, my lord. The good folk around here deem it
advisable to stay out of Berdis’s way. In fact, strictly between ourselves, he
is ruining me. My inn does so little business now, I do not know how I am to
survive. The miners who work in the silver mines used to come here for refreshment,
but no longer, for Berdis robbed them and called it taxation. Traders and
merchants passing through on their way to Serendar avoid us now, for they were
suffering a similar fate. I fear you have much damage to repair, my lord.”

Vesarion jerked his head towards the taproom, bringing the
catalogue of complaints to an end. “Is Seldro there?”

 “He is. The King is out for his blood, because he knew that
the Brigands would remain loyal to you as long as he commanded them. He’s been
on the run for months now. I had to get his family safely into Serendar, courtesy
of a merchant I knew, to prevent them being used as bait to trap him. He thinks
he’s here to meet my lord of Sorne, so I’d give a fortune to see his face when
you walk in.”

 Seldro had aged since Vesarion had last seen him. Although
still only in his early forties, threads of grey had found their way into his
dark hair. He was unshaven and his clothes were worn and streaked with mud.
When the door opened, he jerked to his feet with all the speed of a man who has
been constantly hunted. Yet, when his eyes fell on Vesarion, all he could do
was to stand speechlessly and stare.

 Vesarion, noting the tiredness on his captain’s face, was
moved with compassion and crossed to him and grasped his hand warmly.

 “You have suffered much for your loyalty to me, my friend.
I can only hope that some day I can repay you.”

 “My lord,” gulped Seldro. “You live.” His eyes strayed past
Vesarion and he made another discovery. “Prince Eimer and…and Princess Sareth!”
Then recollecting himself, he bowed slightly to Sareth. “Forgive my rudeness,
Princess.”

 “Actually, Seldro, I am Lady of Westrin now.”

 Seldro’s eyes returned in a dazed fashion to Vesarion. “How
can this be?”

 Yielding to the pressure of Vesarion’s hand on his
shoulder, he sank into a chair and listened intently to all his lord had to
tell him of the last few months.

 “You will appreciate that speed is of the essence,” Vesarion
concluded. “We must therefore lose no time in toppling this so-called King’s Steward.
Are the Brigands still here at Ravenshold?”

 “Half of them are. The other half are in Addania. I have remained
in touch with my lieutenant, Ordrin, who has now been promoted to take my
place, and am certain his loyalty still lies with you, but as you are aware, he
is a cautious man, little prone to defying orders – which is probably why he
got the job. This new work the Steward finds for him to do, is little to his
liking, for he is a decent man. The Brigands are the finest mounted troops in the
Kingdom, but this cur, Berdis, has them extorting money from farmers at sword
point. Such things sit ill with them.”

 “Will the Brigands turn, once they know I am still alive?”

 Seldro looked him in the eyes. “I think they will, my
lord,” he replied firmly.

 “Then we must put the matter to the test, for we do not
have the time to spare for intrigue and are forced to adopt the direct
approach.”

 He rose to his feet and strode to the door, hotly followed
by Eimer who had an inkling of what was about to happen.

 “Are you going to do what I think you are going to do?” the
Prince enquired.

 “Very probably,” was the laconic response. “First we must
flush the rat out of its hole.”

 He crossed to the village green, where the children were
still playing by the old bell, and turned sharply to Iska.

 “Take the children out of harm’s way into the inn, Iska,”
he commanded, and although she would have liked to have stayed,  he was in the
sort of mood that made her little inclined to oppose him. Interpreting the look
on her face, his expression softened a little. “Please, Iska, it is possible
that this could get a bit nasty.”

 She nodded and catching them by the hands, hurried them
away. Vesarion stepped onto the low plinth upon which the tall wooden frame was
built and grasping the bell-rope, pulled vigorously downwards.

 Instantly, the bell’s clear, insistent peal rang across the
quiet village, reverberating off the stone walls of the mighty fortress
towering above them, and echoing off along the distant valley. On and on it
rang, its ominous call striking fear into all who heard it. Eimer knew it would
soon elicit a reaction, for it was meant only to be sounded when there was an
attack by the Turog.

 Doors began to open in the village. Shutters were slammed
and a tumult of voices could soon be heard. The blacksmith, a mighty bear of a
man, emerged from his forge with his hammer still in his hand. Soon, many men
were converging on the green, all bearing the tools of their trade as makeshift
weapons. The moment they came within sight of the bell, a clamour went up.

 “Are we under attack? Where are the Turog? They have not
crossed the border in an age! What is happening?”

 When the tall man ringing the bell turned to face them, a
collective gasp went up.

 The blacksmith, one of the few left in possession of his
wits, pushed his way to the front.

 “My lord, you have returned! We were told you were dead.”

Murmurs of astonishment swept through the crowd like an
autumn gale through the treetops.

 Vesarion stood on the plinth and in a strong voice
addressed the villagers. “Men of Westrin, do you know me?”

 Many voices answered him. “Aye, my lord, we know you.”

 “And who do you say I am?”

 A shout went up as they answered as of one voice. “The
rightful Lord of Westrin.”

 “I hear that things have not been well with you since I
left.”

 Again, the blacksmith answered for them. “They have not, my
lord. It is as if the old days have come again, when the fortress once housed a
nest of bandits. This barony is being treated like a bird ripe for the plucking
and the justice we had come to expect under your rule has gone.”

 At that moment, there was a rumbling noise from the castle,
as the steel portcullis began to rise protestingly on its chains. Everyone
swung round to look upwards at the dark gateway piercing the castle walls high
above them. In an instant, mounted men began to emerge, three abreast, from the
yawning mouth of the fortress and began descending at a brisk trot towards the
village. They were all fully armed with swords and maces and wore chainmail
hauberks and helmets with long nose and cheek guards. Over their hauberks, they
wore cloaks of a deep, sapphire blue, the colour of Westrin, emblazoned with a
chalice flower on the shoulder. Swiftly they descended the ramp and began to
fall into formation before the uneasy crowd. A few of the fainter-hearted villagers
deserted, and began to slip away to their homes. Seldro saw that even the
braver ones were sorely afraid, and for good reason, for they knew they were no
match for such a force. Still, mounted soldiers kept pouring from the fortress,
until Prince Eimer, making a hasty calculation, estimated that almost a
thousand had assembled on the level ground below the castle. The crowd of villagers
now looked perilously like a flock of lambs before a pack of wolves. The blacksmith
suddenly felt Vesarion’s hand on his shoulder.

 “Never fear,” he murmured softly. “I do not expect you to
take on such a force. The bell was merely intended to extract them from the
castle.”

 When all the Brigands had assembled, three mounted men began
to descend from the fortress.

 The one in the centre, Sareth recognised, for he had often
been seen around the palace at Addania in the company of her brother. Berdis
was a powerfully built man, full of arrogant self-confidence. Although of
humble birth, he had risen far by making himself indispensable to Enrick. What
her brother found for such a man to do, Sareth could only guess, but she
assumed that Berdis’s adaptable morals must make him a useful tool. On either
side of him rode two men not in the uniform of the Brigands. Indeed, none of
the three wore armour but all had heavy swords that rested against their thighs
and they managed to convey the impression that they knew well how to use them.

 “Here comes trouble,” muttered Eimer to no one in particular.

 The three guided their horses over to confront the
villagers.

 “Who rang the bell?” demanded Berdis, his neatly trimmed
beard bristling with anger. The crowd murmured sullenly, but no one replied.

“Whoever did this will pay for it” he snarled. “ Now answer
me! Which of you rang the bell?”

 Vesarion stepped out from the crowd, flanked by Eimer and
Sareth.

 “I did,” he said calmly.

Berdis glared at him, identifying him with a sense of shock.
A rustle of recognition went through the Ravenshold Brigands, but the King’s Steward
did not lack for nerve and recovering his poise swiftly, decided to brazen it
out.

 “And who might you be?”

 “You know who I am, Berdis” replied Vesarion evenly.

 “He is Vesarion, Lord of Westrin,” intervened Seldro sharply.
“And well you know it.”

 A pair of cold eyes swivelled towards him. “And you are a
renegade with a price on your head. I think we can discount what you say.”

 Returning to Vesarion he said contemptuously: “Vesarion of
Westrin is dead. If you claim to be him, then you are an impostor and a liar.”