The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (13 page)

 “That is a quotation from The Lays of Tissro,” he
observed. “You may not remember your past but it appears that you are
well-read.”

  “So, it seems, are you,” she riposted.

 He gave a wolfish smile and said nothing.

 By early afternoon they had reached the saddle of
the pass and halted briefly to rest the horses and get something to eat. Elorin
took her bread towards a mighty fallen rock that gave a spectacular view of the
land beyond. Celedorn was instantly at her side.

 “I do have your word, do I not?”

 She looked at him in some irritation, for escape had
not for the moment been her intention.

 “And just where would I be going to up here?” she
demanded, not answering the question. She cast her hand expressively towards
the starkly bare hillside.

 His lips twitched in amusement. “I see. Lack of
cover rather than virtue is keeping you here.”

 She turned away to hide her smile. “Where do we go
from here? Can our destination be seen from this vantage point?” she asked,
standing on the boulder.

 “No,” he tilted his head to look up at her and the
sun caught the ridges on his cheek with uncompromising clarity. “We have
several more passes to cross before we enter the forest that leads to the
Serpent’s Throat. The Kelgor pass takes us a little too far to the west and we
must turn to the north-east in order to examine the section of the gorge I have
in mind.”

 “You know where they are crossing?”

 “Let’s just say I have my suspicions. If they have
got a bridge across, it will be at one of the narrowest points. There are two
or three places where the gorge resembles nothing so much as a great crack in
the earth, plunging terrifyingly deep but narrow. We will check these places
first.”

 “What lies on the far side of the gorge?”

 “The Forsaken Lands. A dense forest stretches for
miles. I have crossed a few times but my forays have been brief and I have
virtually no knowledge of the other side. It is under the dominion of the
Destroyer and even what can appear like deserted stretches of forest are rarely
empty. There is a strange atmosphere of watchfulness that they say can drive a
man insane. Legend has it that remnants of the Old Kingdom still survive here
and there but I have never seen anything of it. If one does not encounter the
Turog, all there is in that forest is a brooding, overpowering silence. Not a
place, given a choice, where one would wish to linger.”

 “What will you do if you find a bridge?”

 “Destroy it,” he replied peremptorily.

 He watched her jump down from the rock and after a
moment’s consideration appeared to embark on a new subject.

 “By the way, you might be interested to know that
your Prince got himself ambushed by the Turog.”

 She gasped. “Andarion? Is he all right?”

 “Your concern for his well-being is admirable.”

 “Tell me!” she demanded. “Is he safe?”

 “Your anxiety makes it almost irresistible to keep
you on tenterhooks, but yes, if you must know, he is safe. He and Prince
Sarrick crossed the Harnor with a large force to attack the Turog but it
appears that they were expected. The creatures pulled an old trick of theirs and
hid in the branches of the trees and dropped on them from behind. I have seen
them do this many times. Sarrick should have known better. However, your Prince
fought himself out of his difficulties. He now heads for Serendar by a
rather.....ah.....circuitous route.”

 “Circuitous?”

 “He does not choose to come through these
mountains.”

 “He’s not afraid of you!” Elorin foolishly retorted,
stung by the implication. Then realising what she had just said she caught her
breath awaiting the explosion.

 But he merely laughed. “Your loyalty to him is
touching. I wonder if he fully appreciates it?”

She turned away from him, aware that he was just using the
opportunity to tease her, and retraced her steps back to the horses.

 By the time Elorin finally dismounted from her horse
that evening, she was stiff and sore from the unaccustomed exercise. They had
ridden without a break until dusk and now she sat on the ground a little apart
from the men, trying to look as if she was not suffering. Celedorn would not
allow any fires to be lit as he did not chose to advertise his presence to the
Turog, so a cold, rather frugal meal was her lot before rolling herself up in
her blankets. She lay listening to the sounds around her, tired but still wide
awake. The horses, including her grey, were picketed together a short distance
away and a guard placed upon them. Apart from those on watch, all the other men
were huddled in their blankets on the ground, reduced by the darkness to
shapeless masses. Celedorn was lying a short distance from her, his helmet and
sword placed by his side. Gradually the camp became quieter as the men fell
asleep. She waited patiently. She heard the soft murmur of conversation of the
guards on duty, the stamp and occasional snort of the horses, the soft breathing
of those asleep. The moon silently rose above the shoulder of the mountain. A
yellow half-moon, waxing stronger, that sent its gelid light drifting over the
sleeping men and over one girl wide awake. She glanced towards Celedorn. He was
lying facing her, his head pillowed on his arm, his eyes closed, his breathing
appeared to be deep and even. Cautiously she raised herself on her elbow. The
guards were out of sight, positioned on the far side of the horses. Quietly she
drew her legs free of the blankets and sat up.

 Out of the darkness a voice spoke to her softly.
“Going somewhere?”

 The grey eyes were open, staring directly at her.

 “I....I thought I’d just stretch my legs.”

  “Stretch them in the morning,” he advised.

 She slid back into her blankets, wondering with a
certain chagrin, if he was going to stay awake all night.  She would wait
a while to see if he fell asleep and in the meantime she would give vent to her
feelings by mentally calling him some of the more interesting adjectives she had
recently acquired from the men. But while engaged in this fruitful and
entertaining occupation she fell asleep.

   For another day they journeyed through the
mountains, either climbing some barren pass or traversing the springy grass of
some high valley, but on the morning of the third day, they began to travel
steadily downwards, leaving the bare mountains behind and encountering for the
first time small copses of wind-bent trees. Soon the trees began to thicken and
grow taller until they found themselves in a mighty forest of oaks, beeches and
chestnuts. Celedorn became even more watchful when they entered the forest and
the men were noticeably uneasy, glancing frequently above and behind them. The
Turog were in their element in densely forested territory, their woodcraft
almost unequalled, their ability to appear and disappear amongst the trees
bordering on the supernatural. As the forest was sheltered from the westerly
winds by the mountains, spring was more advanced here than in the Ravenshold
valley. The canopy of the leaves was dense and secretive. The woods were very
beautiful to Elorin, however, who looked at them in a less practical light than
her companions. She observed how shafts of sunlight filtered through gaps in
the canopy, lighting little glades where wood anemones turned curious faces to
its touch. It illuminated the new leaves from behind, turning them a glorious
spring gold.

 Every so often Celedorn held up his hand and halted
the entire convoy. In the silence that followed he appeared to be listening
intently. After observing this phenomenon a couple of times, Elorin could
contain herself no longer.

 “What are you listening for?” she asked.

 “The sounds of the forest,” he replied softly.
“Birds and animals always know if the Turog are around. Birds particularly are
disturbed by them and send out their alarm calls. This is prime ambush
territory, as we are now very close to the Forsaken Lands. It pays not to
underestimate one’s enemy, that is how I have stayed alive.”

 She glanced uneasily around her, picking up the
atmosphere. Suddenly the forest did not seem so beautiful.

 “What do I do if it comes to a fight?” she asked.

 “Stay close to me,” he replied, unaware that he was
echoing Dorgan’s advice.

 As the morning passed, Elorin, who had been
listening intently, detected a new sound in addition to those of the forest and
the convoy. A constant low thunder that increased in volume as they travelled.

 “What is that?” she asked

 “The Serpent’s Throat. We have arrived.”

 She stared around her in confusion, seeing only
trees. He halted his horse and dismounted. The men stayed where they were but
Elorin slid out of her saddle and followed him on foot through the trees. The
sound increased in volume, filling the air, obliterating all other noises. To its
thunder was added a steady hissing sound. Yet still she could see nothing. Then
all at once he abruptly stopped, so abruptly that she almost collided with him.
Astonishment wrenched a gasp from her when she saw why he had halted. Almost
directly at their feet a gulf yawned, a wound in the earth’s surface that
stretched to right and left until it disappeared amongst the trees. The sides
of the chasm dropped sheer from the forest floor, plummeting without warning
into oblivion. The trees grew right to the very edge of the abyss, hiding its
presence until the last moment. Gingerly she peered over the edge. He grasped
her arm warningly.

 “Be careful,” he advised, raising his voice over the
noise, “the edges can give way.”

 Far, far below the mighty Harnor was trammelled and
confined between the towering black walls of stone. The curves and twists of
the passage threw it into angry tumult as if it resented its restraint. Just
below where they stood, it hurled itself over a fall in a thundering torrent
that sent mist floating upwards on a cold draft of air. She felt the chill
touch of the tiny droplets, astonished that they could reach such a height. The
far wall of the precipice was so close at this point, that a strong man could
have cast a stone on to it. She stared at the opposite wall. The black stone
gleamed damply. A few tiny ferns and lichens had courageously made their home
in the crevices; but largely the rocks were bare, shining and slick with spray.
She looked down at the Harnor, drawn to it by a kind of frightening
fascination. His grip on her arm tightened.

 “I see you have a head for heights,” he remarked
grimly. “I don’t particularly care for it myself. Come, we have seen enough.
They have clearly not bridged the gorge here.”

  She stepped back a pace and transferred her
gaze to the forest on the opposite side of the gorge. It continued
uninterrupted as far as she could see.

 “Is that the Forsaken land?”

 “Yes. We must leave the gorge for a while now as the
path along the cliff becomes impassable for horses. We will return to it about
a mile further east where it narrows like this again.”

 They returned to the horses and for a brief period
left the gorge and returned to the silence of the forest, but soon their path
turned northwards and the sound of the Harnor could again be detected echoing
up the narrow walls. Celedorn, who was a little ahead of her, gave an
exclamation and stopped his horse. He turned in the saddle to address the men.

  “It’s here. It is as we suspected - they’ve managed
to bridge the gorge. Dismount and bring axes and ropes.”

 A narrow bridge, wide enough for only two men to
walk along it abreast, spanned the gorge. It was roughly but serviceably made
from hewn tree-trunks and raw branches. Supports angled upwards from the cliff
face below, where they had been hammered into crevices. Rough planks had been
set transversely between the rope-bound boughs that spanned the echoing void.
The planks were muddy with frequent use. There were no hand rails of any kind,
nothing to give even an illusory sense of safety and it took a certain amount
of courage to cross the narrow structure.

 Celedorn dismounted and crossed to the bridge,
followed by the men carrying the items he had ordered. The horses were taken
away under guard and lookouts posted at some distance amongst the trees.
Everyone stood on the edge of the chasm studying the bridge but no one ventured
on to it.

 “This will not be easy,” Celedorn murmured. “It is
not enough merely to remove the central portion of the bridge because they will
reinstate it in no time. No, the only way is to use axes to weaken the
supporting spars that project from the cliff and tear them away by attaching
ropes to them and pulling them bodily out of their mountings.” He turned to the
man nearest him. “Pick several men who do not fear heights and lower them on
ropes to the spars on the far side. They are to weaken them with the axes - but
obviously not so much that the bridge falls before they use it to get back.
Attach ropes to the spars and feed them back across the bridge. We’ll tie them
to the strongest horses and see what that achieves.”

 While all this was going on, Elorin walked onto the
bridge and looked down from the dizzying height at the Harnor far distant
below. The river ran smoother at this point, churning its powerful way between
walls that ran reasonably straight. Its sound was fainter, echoing up the sheer
walls. Celedorn, engrossed in plans to destroy the bridge, suddenly noticed
where she was.

 “Get off the bridge!” he snapped. “This is no time
to play the fool.”

 The men grinned to each other as she retreated
feeling like a schoolchild who has been smacked in front of the class. She sat
down on a fallen tree-trunk near the bridge, where she could watch all that
went on without fear of a reprimand. With Celedorn’s attention clearly
absorbed, she could not resist a furtive glance towards her horse. But it was
under guard along with the others. For the first time she noticed the armed men
posted silently amongst the trees in a wide semicircle around the bridge.
Celedorn never relaxed his vigilance.