The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (71 page)

 Mordrian began to guide his horse through the ranks towards
the front, each man falling back respectfully before him, until he was in clear
view of the enemy ranged against him. His brother, and a squire bearing the
snake banner, rode a subordinate pace or two behind him. The three riders moved
out into the open plain towards the enemy lines, remaining just out of bowshot.
Mordrian halted his horse and his eye travelled back and forth over the
Eskendrian forces for a tense moment, then he threw back his head and laughed.
Looking over his shoulder at Kerac, who appeared uncomfortable, as if uncertain
as to why he was there, he called scornfully: “Is this it? Is this the best
they can do? I had been hoping for a decent fight, but this is going to be
easy
.”

 Unintentionally, he could have done nothing better to
stiffen his opponents’ resolve. He thought he was inspiring fear, but he had
made a misjudgement – for he instead inspired hatred. From King Enrick, down to
the lowliest farm hand clutching a spear, the Eskendrians burned with anger.

 My Lord Veldor, watching from the head of his division, was
heard to growl fiercely: “This arrogant upstart seems to hold us cheap, but we
will teach him respect the hard way – and I  look forward to it.”

 Enrick, stung by this performance, decided to seize the
initiative. He swung round in the saddle and snapped to his trumpeters: “Sound
the advance.”

Their call rang out clear over both armies. In response, the
heavy infantry lowered their pikes and bristling with steel, the entire army
began to move forwards.

 Mordrian, a little wrong-footed, retreated amongst his cavalry
and hastily set his own forces in motion.

 Out on the wings, things were moving faster. Seizing his
chance, Demeron led his archers at a run out beyond the main body of infantry.
Each man moved light and fast, carrying a bow almost as tall as himself. It
took years of training to master the longbow, to develop the strength of chest
and shoulder needed to be effective, but the Perith-arn were sure of their
skill. At Demeron’s command, arrows were fitted to the notch and every bowstring
creaked as it was drawn back to its fullest extent for maximum killing-power.
Pointing their weapons skywards, the Perith-arn unleashed a hail of death upon
the advancing army of invaders. The dark mass of arrows whistled through the
air and descended with deadly accuracy on the front ranks of the army of
Adamant. Some managed to raise their shields above their head as protection,
but many were not quick enough. Man after man began to fall under the relentless
rain of arrows that carried enough force to pierce mail and even, as the
distance shortened, plate armour. Screams of pain began to rend the air, but
Mordrian’s men were well trained and as each man fell, the ones behind merely stepped
forward over the bodies of their wounded comrades to plug the gap.

 Mordrian, alive to the danger the enemy archers posed, dispatched
his cavalry to cut them down. A body of horsemen swept from behind the foot
soldiers and made for Demeron’s men at full gallop. Vesarion knew the archers
had little defence against such an onslaught, and was swift to act. Gathering
the Ravenshold Brigands behind him, he drew his sword, dug his heel into his
horse’s flanks and shot forward to intercept them. The Perith-arn, aware of their
exposed position, were already retreating when the Ravensholders flashed past
them in a body, the thundering hooves of their horses kicking up clods of earth
as they went. The ground between the two converging horsemen just seemed to
vanish and they crashed together in a shock-wave that soon degenerated into a
confused melee. Eimer’s men on the far wing were in a similar state. Never shy
of a fight, the young prince had slammed down his visor and was laying about
him recklessly with his sword. Yet even in the heat of the battle, it crossed
his mind to wonder what had happened when Vesarion had first drawn the sword of
Erren-dar in battle.

 Vesarion was now in possession of the answer to that
question. He had been forced to go into battle with the chilling realisation in
his heart, that if the sword had indeed special powers, then he was not the man
to unlock them. The moment he had drawn the sword, his eyes had searched for
any sign of the blue flame that was said to burn along the edges of the blade
when its powers were unleashed, but he had seen nothing. The sword was merely a
very fine weapon and must serve him as such. He had little time to indulge his
disappointment. Faced with an aggressive opponent wielding a spiked mace, he
refused to blunt his sword’s sharp edge against such a weapon. He ducked under
the blow aimed at him, and without hesitation, slammed his shield upward,
catching the unwary man under the chin with such force it unseated him and more
than likely broke his neck.

 The two armies had now closed the gap between them and the
slow-moving infantry quickened their pace, covering the last stretch of intervening
turf. With a mighty crunch that seemed to make the ground tremble, the
shield-walls of the front lines collided. The pikes did their gory work, their
long reach skewering through armour, bringing down many, but neither line had
given way and no significant gaps were opened. After the initial collision, the
long spears were largely abandoned as an encumbrance in the tight heave and
thrust of close-quarter fighting. Swords and battle-axes flashed as each man
hacked and stabbed for survival.

 The black warriors had been positioned in the centre of the
Adamantian forces and now came up against the Eskendrian heavy infantry. Lord
Veldor, in the centre of the line with his squire bearing his standard at his
side, had placed his steadiest troops in the front rank and now was more than
glad he had done so. The black warriors were daunting enough to make even the
bravest heart blench and he kept an eagle eye on his men to make sure that no
one broke ranks and fled. Dismounting, he took his position in the vanguard and
drew his sword, well aware that his presence might just tip the balance between
courage and cowardice. When the two lines crashed together, he picked his target
and went for the tall, masked soldier in front of him. Although his years were
not in his favour, Veldor was an experienced and stubborn fighter. The black
warrior, accepting the challenge, lunged at him with its sword. Veldor with
surprising agility, deftly avoided the thrust and using his considerable
weight, rammed his shield against his tall opponent’s. Turning swiftly sideways,
he slammed his shoulder against it with such impact that his adversary was driven
back a pace. Recovering, it swept its sword over the rim of the two shields, scoring
Veldor’s breastplate. Things might have gone ill with the oldest of the barons
at that point, had not his devoted squire, scorning conventional tactics,
dropped to his knees and with all his strength, thrust his sword clean through
the leg of his master’s opponent. A roar of pain broke from behind the mask, of
such volume that it would have caused a lesser man to recoil, but Veldor did
not miss his chance. Swinging his sword sideways like a scythe, he aimed for
the black warrior’s exposed neck. The sharp blade sliced through muscle and
sinew and blood spurted from a severed artery. But it did not die. It took a
second enormous blow to decapitate it. The severed head fell at his feet.
Snatching it up by the crest of the helmet, he handed the grisly trophy to his
squire, shouting urgently over the noise of battle: “Take this to the King…” He
broke off to duck under a swinging blow, before snatching his standard from the
squire. “We must find out what we are dealing with and I cannot examine it
here. Now,
go!
”

 The young man, aware of the critical importance of his
mission, struggled through the heaving throng, dodging blows and jostling men
out of his way using his shield. When he reached the King, he had no need to
explain.

 Dragging him to the rear, the King peremptorily ordered him
to remove the visor from the severed head. When he did so, all those who saw
it, gasped with shock. Beneath the mask was the twisted face of a red Turog,
its brick-red skin running with blood of a brighter hue. Its yellow fangs were
bared in a convulsive death-snarl but what had shocked them was its eyes. The
red species of Turog shared the same sulphurous eyes as the common kind, but
not this one. Its eyes, frozen open in death, were not yellow but uniformly
black. The entire eye lying between the open lids, was a deep, bottomless black
without even the gleam of  a surface. It was like looking into two empty,
infinite voids.

 The King looked at the appalled faces around him and nobly rose
to the occasion, once more proving his worth.

 “No matter what its eyes are like, it is a red Turog and
can therefore be killed – as Lord Veldor has just proved. So, gentlemen,” he
said with a bleak smile, “spread the word, and let us go and kill some more.”

 With that, he lowered his visor and was soon deep in the
fray, heading directly for the centre of the battle line where it was becoming
clear that Lord Veldor’s division was already in trouble.

 However, it was at that very same moment, over on the right
wing, that the two men who were the most deadly enemies in the two kingdoms,
came face to face.

  Despite what Vesarion and Eimer had both predicted, Sareth
had her own reasons for remaining largely true to her promise to stay at the
back. She and Iska had watched anxiously as the Ravenshold Brigands had gone to
the rescue of the archers. She had tried to keep track of Vesarion but he had ploughed
into the thick of the fight and the distinctive blue of his shield was instantly
lost to sight. Although tempted to join the mounted fray, Sareth was wise
enough to realise that she would be putting herself at a disadvantage, as
fighting from horseback deprived her of her main assets – her speed and
manoeuvrability. So, tensely gripping her hilt, she waited and watched, noting
how the Perith-arn, once they had the cavalry off their backs, re-grouped and
began bringing down individual targets, notably from amongst the black
warriors. Meanwhile, their rescuers were proving that their reputation as the
best mounted troops in the land was well deserved. At first, in the chaotic
melee that followed the collision of the two forces, it was difficult to tell
which way the  battle was going, for every man was fighting for himself,
slashing in all directions. Shields clashed together, maces swung viciously
through the air, swords flashed and men cried out as wounds were inflicted.
Like all mounted battles, it did not follow straight lines like the infantry,
but had rapidly degenerated into a dangerous muddle in which the rider behind
was just as likely to be a foe as a friend. It required not only strength and
skill, but the ability to fight in several directions at once. Moreover the
horses, although trained to tolerate the noise of weapons, sometimes succumbed
to panic and became difficult to manage, often changing the course of a fight
by their unpredictability.

 Gradually, however, out of the din and confusion, it began
to become evident that the Ravensholders were getting the better of their
opponents. The number of those facing them was clearly dwindling, as many
arduous hours of training in the Westrin Mountains began to yield results.

 Sareth and Iska were not the only ones to notice this.
Prince Mordrian was well aware that once his cavalry had been eliminated, the
Eskendrians would sweep down on the flanks of his infantry in a manner that
would cause their formation to disintegrate. The black warriors were pressing
the centre of the Eskendrian line so hard that he knew it was close to
breaking, but a cavalry attack on the flanks might just tip the balance against
him. He had no intention of allowing this to happen, and gathering his personal
retinue around him, he drew his sword and led them at full gallop into the
counter-attack.

 Iska clutched Sareth’s arm in alarm as she saw the
snake-banner streak across the plain towards the Ravenshold Brigands.

 “Look!” she cried. “That banner means only one thing –
Mordrian is leading the attack himself!”

 They stared at one another in consternation. Then, not sure
exactly what they intended to do, they both sprang forward.

 The Ravensholders had little warning of this new danger and
had barely begun to regroup when Prince Mordrian’s forces slammed into them.

 It was at this moment that the two enemies encountered one
another. The snake-banner had caught Vesarion’s eye and when he swung round in
the saddle to face it, the fierce gaze of the two men collided with a force
that was almost a blow. Their helmets, though visorless, left little of their
faces visible but they knew one another in an instant, and even had they not,
their shields would have proclaimed their identity. One of those strange moments
in battle occurred, when suddenly amongst the din and seething confusion of war,
a fragment of utter clarity emerges. The struggle continued to rage around them,
but the two men were oblivious to it. Amber eyes and blue eyes, looking out
over the cheek-pieces of their helmets, bored into one another and all their
old enmity ignited like a white-hot flame. For the space of a heartbeat neither
reacted, then, before Sareth’s horrified gaze, Vesarion touched his heels to
his horses flanks and launched his attack.  Mordrian answered the challenge willingly
and they closed purposefully with one another.

 Vesarion had always known it was inevitable. Since the moment
he had seen Mordrian in the distance earlier in the day, he had known in some
hidden place in his heart that at some stage during the battle they would meet.
Some might call it fate, or destiny, but regardless of what it was, Vesarion
had no wish to avoid it. He knew no fear, or indecision. Self-doubt was a thing
that used to plague him, but that was now in his past, and what he must now do
had never been clearer. That day in Adamant when he had been helpless to defend
himself, his tormentor’s mocking sneer, his contempt, had been seared into his
memory, and from that moment he had been possessed by an almost obsessive desire
to meet him on equal terms. And now, just at the very hour his hated enemy
threated all that he held most precious, that time had come. But Vesarion’s
anger did not cloud his judgement and he realised, with the part of his mind
still functioning with a certain cool logic, that Mordrian would be a
formidable opponent. He also noticed that in his hand, the Prince was gripping
the hilt of the black sword – a demonic weapon against which the sword of
Erren-dar had not yet been tested. He remembered what Eimer had said about it –
that tempered steel was no match for it, suffering such damage that the
sharpest blade was soon rendered a blunt instrument. Yet he drew comfort from
the fact that although he had not been able to unlock the powers of his sword,
it was no ordinary weapon and he prayed it would withstand that evil blade.

 He was soon to find out.

 No sooner did the horses meet, than Mordrian swung the black
sword above his head and brought it sweeping down against his opponent.
Vesarion flashed his blade upwards in a fierce blocking stroke and the two weapons
collided with such raw force that each man was jarred to the shoulder. But to
Vesarion’s relief and Mordrian’s chagrin, the sword of Erren-dar came away
undamaged by the encounter.

 This confirmation that all was indeed equal between them at
last, was all that was needed to fan the flames of vengeance, and Vesarion held
back no longer. He attacked aggressively, bringing many powerful blows to bear
against his adversary, pressing him harder than any man had ever done before.
But Mordrian was a confident fighter, not easily intimidated and every blow was
either parried or taken on his shield. Moreover, Vesarion’s deep blue shield,
emblazoned with the arms of Westrin, possessed no special powers to protect it
against the cutting power of the black sword and was taking heavy damage. Many
deep scores and dents were already evident. Realising that it was soon likely
to be rendered useless by the beating it was taking, Vesarion resorted to an
old trick that his swordmaster had taught him. Feinting with his sword to
distract Mordrian, he swung his kite-shaped shield sideways and caught his
opponent such a blow with the edge, that he almost unseated him. Mordrian lost
a stirrup and was thrown sideways over his horse’s shoulder. Even so, he might
have recovered, had not his horse unwittingly come to Vesarion’s assistance by
giving in to panic and rearing up. Mordrian struggled to hang on, but he had
lost both stirrups by now and weighed down by his shield, could not regain his
balance. The horse reared again and the Snake Prince fell with a crash to the
ground.

 Yet, the set-back only seemed to prove his mettle, for in a
flash he was on his feet, in the slight crouch of the experienced duellist. Vesarion,
keen to come to grips with him again, kicked his feet free of the stirrups and
sprang from the saddle, landing with almost feline poise, completely balanced
and ready to fight.

 His self-belief unshaken by the incident, Mordrian could
not resist the pleasure of taunting his opponent.

 “Last time I saw you, Eskendrian, you were on your knees
before me, running with blood.”

 Vesarion’s eyes were as cold as steel. “Last time we met,
my hands were bound behind my back – but no longer.”

 As if to demonstrate his point, he held up his right hand
with the sword of Erren-dar in it.

 “I see you got it back,” observed Mordrian mockingly,
“stolen by your accomplices, but it matters not. It has fulfilled its function
and I have no more need of it.” He held up the black sword. “It is time it met
its fate in this, its dark counterpart. The power of the demon lies in this
sword and it excels the original in both strength and power. It will destroy
your precious sword of Erren-dar with ease.”

 “We shall see,”  Vesarion grimly replied, before closing
with him again.

 His shield took another hammering blow and was by now so
riven that he knew that the next blow would split it in two. Swiftly casting it
aside, he grasped his hilt with his favourite two-handed grip, knowing that his
sword was now his only means of defence as well as attack. From now on, every
blow must be intercepted by the legendary blade without fail, or he would
suffer the consequences.

 Despite his bold words, Mordrian’s encounter with his enemy
had taught him to be wary. Never before in a fight had any man stretched him to
his limits as this man had done, and although he did not doubt his ability to
dispose of him, he knew the slightest mistake would be exploited.

 Cautiously, the two men began to circle one another, trying
to scent weakness, trying to spot an opening. So intense was their
concentration upon each other, that neither was aware of something
extraordinary happening around them. The battle that had been taking place on
every side of them was faltering. The Adamantians saw their prince engaged in what
was clearly a very deadly duel. On their part, the Ravensholders had seen their
revered commander’s shield destroyed by a weapon with powers beyond that of
mere steel. Against  their will and better judgement, both sides found that their
attention had become riveted to the fight with the inevitability of a pin to a
magnet. As the contest continued, more and more men on both sides turned to
watch. Sareth and Iska wriggled determinedly through the crowd to find
themselves next to Eimer, on the edge of the space that had mysteriously cleared
around the two combatants. Gradually, the sounds of battle died away as every
weapon fell silent, until only the clash of two swords could be heard. Most
extraordinary of all, the black warriors, when the attack against them began to
stutter, stopped fighting, as if in receipt of some hidden command,  and stood
as still as if entombed in ice. It seemed as though the greater will that
controlled them had found something more pressing to claim its attention.

 Still the two protagonists assessed one another, oblivious
to all but their contest. Few of those watching had seen a fight like it for
sheer speed and power. Mordrian, finding his heavy, round shield cumbersome,
had also discarded it, and when the attack was renewed,  the blades flashed
back and forth between them with strokes so fast and cutting, that orange sparks
shot into the dull air.

 Eimer, watching them with knuckles white around his sword
hilt, tried to be objective and decided that although Vesarion had more speed
and agility, his opponent was cunning, always trying to deceive or misdirect,
always trying to unbalance him and expose an opening. They had again broken
apart for a moment, both running with sweat, their chests heaving but soon they
stubbornly closed again and a flurry of lightning fast blows was exchanged that
culminated in a vicious sideways swipe from Mordrian. Vesarion ducked, but was
not quite fast enough and the black sword caught the crest of his helmet. Under
the force of the impact, the leather chin-strap broke and his helmet was wrenched
from his head.

 A heart-rending cry of horror broke from Sareth and she
made to start forward only to find herself caught by a strong arm. The King,
who had been standing behind her, grasped in an instant what she had been about
to do, and caught her around the waist, pinning her arms to her sides.

 “Let me go!” she cried,  struggling frantically with him.
“Let me go, Enrick!”

 “No, Sareth,” he panted, for he was barely able to
constrain her. “You will not be helping him but distracting him. Do not meddle,
sister, I command it.”

 “No!” she wailed.

Eimer for once, sided with his brother. “Enrick is right.
You cannot help and will only make things worse. You must have faith in him.”

 But of all of her well-meaning advisors, only Iska
understood, and her hand closed on her friend’s trembling shoulder as they
stood together watching with helpless fear. All Sareth’s nightmares were coming
true. Everything she had striven so hard to deny was unfolding before her eyes.
Suddenly, she felt a warm, leathery paw grip her hand. She looked down to find
Gorm mysteriously at her side. He returned her look with his yellow eyes and
said with gruff sympathy: “Sareth must not be afraid. Vesarion is good
fighter.”

 Once again the combatants had briefly separated. Mordrian,
deliberately and provocatively, removed his helmet and cast it aside.

 “There, Eskendrian, see how little your skills impress me!
I need nothing but this sword to defeat you. I need no armour; no shield; no
luck. I have all I need in my own strength and this weapon.” Despite the fact
that he was out of breath, he managed to give a predatory smile. “Did you know
that it has a name? All great swords have a name.” As he spoke he began moving
round Vesarion, who was paying little heed to his words and was instead
anticipating the next attack. “Do you want to know its name, Eskendrian? It
bears the name of its creator, for its name is Gorgoron – the bringer of evil.”
As he spoke the name, a deep, blood-red flame flared briefly along the edges of
the black blade.