The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (74 page)

 “No – at least, not today.”

 The information acted on Gorm like a tonic and he sat up as
if moved by a spring.

 “Feel better now,” he announced and failed to understand
why everyone else laughed.

 Looking around him he said in revelatory tones: “Vesarion
not die either?”

 “No,” Eimer replied, smiling. “It seems the house of
Westrin will not end today.”

 Sareth, feeling the moment had come, slid her hand into
Vesarion’s and looking up at him, said significantly: “The House of Westrin is
definitely not going to end.”

 He returned her look blankly for a moment, then catching
her meaning, he drew in his breath sharply. “You mean…..?”

 “Yes.”

 “So soon?”

 She smiled saucily at him. “You underestimate yourself.”

 Vesarion gave a shout of joy and catching her into his arms
swung her round delightedly.

 Eimer, always one to have the last word, observed: “So,
Erren-dar will have yet another heir.”

 “What if it’s a girl?” Iska suggested mischievously.

 “If she’s anything like her mother, then heaven help us
all!” declared the Prince fervently.

******************************

 Some weeks after these events, as the autumn ripened into a
rich amber fruitfulness before the advent of winter, a man and a woman stood
together in a wooded clearing. They were accompanied by a short figure that was
clearly not human, and even more clearly, was ill at ease. They had escorted
him from the fringes of the Great Forest across the Bridge of the Twelve
Arches, deep into the mountains of the Barony of Westrin. Gorm looked up at
Sareth and Vesarion, wondering why they had brought him here. Although he
trusted them more than any other human beings, he was nonetheless uncomfortable
to be so far into the territory of men. His yellow eyes, therefore, held a
question that Vesarion hoped he could answer.

 “We’ve brought you here, Gorm, because, to be honest, we
were not sure what to do with you,” he admitted. “We are deeply conscious of
all that we owe you and felt that we could not abandon you to live, as you did
once before, in the Great Forest, bullied and persecuted by the other Turog. We
also know that you don’t like towns – places of stone – and perhaps you are
wise, because close contact with people, especially those who do not know you,
would only end in grief.”

 “Although,” interrupted Sareth mischievously, “you are
going to have to overcome your dislike of places of stone on at least one
occasion, because you are invited to a wedding.”

 “Don’t like wedding,” Gorm promptly replied. Then reviewing
his statement, in the interests of honesty, he added: “Except for the food.”

 Sareth laughed. “There will be plenty of food at this
wedding – for it is a royal one.”

 “Whose wedding?” Gorm demanded suspiciously.

“Two old friends of yours – Eimer and Iska.”

 Gorm wrinkled his forehead doubtfully. “King like that?” he
asked with remarkable perception.

 “No,” Vesarion replied feelingly. “The King does not like
that. He has been ranting and raving about how the royal house will be polluted
with the blood of Parth, but as Eimer is of age there’s not much he can do
about it, short of locking him in a dungeon.”

 “That would do it,” Gorm conceded.

 “Besides, he’s inhibited by the fact that he’s worried that
if he annoys Iska too much, she’ll turn him into something nasty.”

 “Ha!” cried Gorm, wickedly amused by that.

 Sareth, taking this as a good sign, said: “So, you will
come, won’t you?”

 But the little Turog shook his head. “Gorm not belong
anywhere. Not with humans. Not with Kalthak.”

 This caused Vesarion and Sareth to exchange significant
glances. “That is why we brought you here,” explained Vesarion. “You are now
deep in the Barony of Westrin, in a remote area of forests and mountains where
there are few people, and….well, we thought you might like it here.”

 He handed the Turog a rolled up parchment bearing a red wax
seal stamped with the King’s insignia. “I have given strict instruction to my
people not to molest you, but just in case there is any doubt about the matter,
the King has sent you his writ, sealed with the royal seal, granting you the
right to live in Eskendria with his blessing and protection.”

 Gorm took the parchment gingerly, but as he still looked
doubtful, Sareth added her voice to Vesarion’s.

 “We thought it was the sort of place that would appeal to
you, for there are mountains and forests with plenty of game and many streams.”

 But to her dismay, the little Turog’s ears were drooping
dismally. “Sareth not live here,” he noted, refusing to be comforted. “Never
see Sareth again.”

 “Of course you will, Gorm,” she laughed, delighted to be
able to reassure him. “Ravenshold is only half a day’s ride from here. We can
see one another any time we like.”

 The ears lifted a trifle. “Promise?”

 “I promise.”

 Gorm responded with a grin so wide that it displayed to
full advantage his formidable set of teeth, and began to look around him with
new interest.

 Rising majestically above the trees, the Westrin Mountains
were dreamily snow-capped, startlingly white against the deep, eternal blue of
the sky. Here and there silver banners of cloud flew from the highest peaks,
drifting westwards towards the sea.

 Bringing his gaze to his closer surroundings, Gorm saw a
stately forest of beech and oak trees, now ablaze with shades of copper and
gold. The mellow, honeyed light of autumn descended in shafts between the trees
to illuminate sheltered, mossy glades. A drowsy peace nestled over the forest,
laced by the quiet gurgle of the clear stream on its busy way down from the
peaks, and from the tallest tree floated forth the cool, fluting song of a
blackbird.

 Gorm took it all in, and then, sighing deeply, felt moved
to make a momentous announcement.

 “Like it here,” he said contentedly.

The End