The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (69 page)

 “What if one hits the
gate!” Elorin exclaimed.

 “It won’t. The gate has
been deliberately set at an angle behind the bastion to prevent such an occurrence.”

 With an ear-splitting
crash, a stone hit the top of the parapet a few yards from them and exploded
through it, flinging chunks of wall and smaller debris like hailstones all
around them. Even though Elorin was crouched almost flat on the flags, she
found herself violently flung backwards and was only saved from falling down a
flight of steps by Sarrick’s iron hand grabbing the collar of her tunic. He
hauled her back beside him and she saw that he was bleeding from a graze on his
chin and another beneath his ear.

 “Are you all right?” he
yelled in her ear, almost completely deafened.

 She nodded. “Where is
Relisar?”

 Relisar was lying flat
on his back, some distance further along the flags from the place where he had
been sheltering, quite at a loss to account for how he got there. He was
covered in white dust from head to foot, and was blinking at them like a dazed
rat in a flour bag. He at least appeared to be uninjured. A soldier, sheltering
closer to the impact than they had been, was not so fortunate. What remained of
his body did not make pleasant viewing.

 The bombardment
continued for over an hour, until all the defenders were deafened and blinded
with dust, but the city walls, though damaged in places, did not give way and
no significant breach was made.

 When the catapults
finally fell silent, they were replaced by a storm of arrows snicking and
pinging off the stonework, but once again the mighty walls protected the
inhabitants, their very height rendering all but the luckiest shot, fruitless.

 A thunder of drums
erupted from below. Heavy, rhythmic thuds that seemed to make the earth
vibrate. In time with the drumbeats, the Turog began to clash their weapons
against their shields. The noise was simply terrifying. Knowing well what it presaged,
Sarrick, covered from head to foot in grey dust, regained his feet and
signalled to his bowmen to come forward.

 “Here they come,” he
muttered grimly, as the waiting hordes began to surge across the drained river
to the base of the walls.

 Scaling ladders began
to sway up clumsily into the air, and at the same time, a multitude of
grappling hooks were launched. Some clanged harmlessly off the lower
fortifications but a few made it to the top of the walls and instantly their
steel claws hooked the parapet. Men flew to slash the attached ropes with their
swords, but more and more came. A forest of ladders, like some frightening
fungal growth, arose out of the black throng below.

 
Elorin found a place on the battlements beside the
other bowmen, and ignoring the incoming arrows still pinging off the walls
below her, took careful aim. Her target was a Great-turog directing operations
at one of the ladders and she drew back her bow with all her strength to put
killing power behind her shot, but just as she released the arrow, he moved.
The smaller Turog standing behind him fell with Elorin’s arrow driven right
through its throat. Quick as a blink, Elorin whipped another arrow from her
quiver, but the Great-turog had melted away, in that rather disconcerting way
they were prone to.

 Further along the
walls, Celedorn and Andarion were defending the bastion that protected the gate
from attack. The Red Turog, realising that the draining of the river had left
the gate some twenty feet above ground level, had prepared a wooden ramp,
designed to give them the height needed to use the battering ram. The
Eskendrians had absolutely no intention of allowing them to get such a
structure into position. Arrows hissed down from the heights above onto the
enemy struggling with the heavy ramp. In response, they locked shields above
their heads and although their losses were heavy, continued to move the ramp
forward inch by inch.

 “We are not going to
stop them this way,” commented Andarion.

 “No,” agreed Celedorn.
“Let us see what a little hot oil between the armour can achieve.”

 “You have no
compunction?”

 Celedorn was clearly
surprised by the question. “None.”

 Cauldrons of oil were
carried to the edge of the parapet by men staggering under the weight but also
wary of spilling their scorching load. When the order was given, searing hot
sheets of oil fell mercilessly on the Red Turog below. Screams and shrieks of
pain rose up from the gate, as the oil penetrated their armour. Some ran wild,
tearing frantically at their burning armour, driven mad with pain. There arose
to the nostrils of the defenders an unpleasant smell of roasting Turog. The
ramp was abandoned, as those few who had escaped the oil came under fire from
the walls. However, a Great-turog on the far bank, snarling with rage, swung
his long whip over his head and lashed another detachment of Red Turog into
position by the ramp. It said much for the fear in which he was held, that
despite the screams of their burning comrades, the Red Turog obeyed.

 “They have come back,”
exclaimed the King in despair.

 Celedorn leaned over
the wall, dangerously exposed, to view the ramp below.

 “I have an idea,” he
said, sharply withdrawing his head as an arrow struck the stonework beside him.
“I need a torch.”

 At a word from Andarion,
a soldier came running up and thrust a flaming torch into his hand. Celedorn
leaned out again. “Some oil fell on the ramp. If I can get this torch to land
on it, with luck, it will catch fire.”

 To get a good shot, he
had to lean out so far that Andarion was forced to thrust his hand through his
belt and lean his weight backwards as a counterbalance. The soldiers around him
were appalled that their king should risk himself in such a fashion, for arrows
fell thick and fast around them and several men fell. Without a word being
spoken, they raised their shields to protect him.

 Celedorn, taking
careful aim despite his exposed position, gently lobbed the torch and watched
as it slithered down the ramp amongst the Red Turog. For a moment nothing
happened, then suddenly there was a burst of flame as the oil ignited. The
creatures sprang back, remembering the fate of their comrades, and as they did
so, the shields locked protectively over their heads, separated. The Eskendrian
archers did not waste their opportunity and the Turog were forced to abandon
the blazing ramp in disarray.

 Not so, however, at the
section of the wall under Sarrick’s command. As expected, his section bore the
brunt of the attack, as this was the place where the wall was most vulnerable. Although
many scaling ladders were pushed back with the long pikes and many grappling
hooks cut, the overwhelming numbers that just kept on coming, no matter how
many were repulsed, began to tell on the defenders. The river bed below the
wall at that point was so choked with dead Turog that those continuing with the
assault climbed over heaps of bodies to get to the base of the wall. In a
never-ending black flood they swarmed across the riverbed. Ladder after ladder
swayed into the air and so many grappling hooks were cast, that the wall looked
like the centre of some gigantic spider’s web.

 Elorin had been so busy
that she had not noticed Relisar slip away to look after the wounded. She had
also not noticed that at the section of the wall where the parapet had been
smashed, a ladder had been established. A knot of Turog had already reached the
battlements and were defending the head of the ladder. As men charged to attack
them, more and more ladders hit the wall.

 Sarrick, alert to the
danger, bellowed for reinforcements before drawing his sword and wading into
the fray. In response to his cry, the soldiers defending the bastion left their
stations and raced along the wall to his aid. Andarion stayed to defend the
gate, but Celedorn, sword in hand, sprang along the flags and charged into the
bitter struggle at full tilt.

 Elorin, her arrows all
gone, pressed herself back out of the way and watched as he dealt summarily
with those bold enough, or foolish enough, to oppose him. For a precarious
moment the issue hung in the balance as more enemy poured over the walls, but
then one of the Turog recognised Celedorn. With a howl of terror it shrieked: “
Zardes-kur!
Zardes-kur!”

 The others heard its
cry and their assault faltered for a second. It was all that was needed. The
men flung themselves upon them with renewed fury and a scene of utter butchery
ensued. All those on the walls were slaughtered and with a mighty,
muscle-cracking effort the ladders, heavy with ascending Turog, were heaved
back off the walls. In slow motion they arched out from the wall, their loads
of frozen Turog too terrified to scream. At one point they almost seemed to
reach a state of equilibrium, before tipping too far and crashing down on the
frantically scattering masses below.

 Their fall created
chaos amongst the besiegers. The Great-turog snarled and laid about them with
their whips, but they knew that order had disintegrated. Slowly, the black
hordes began to retreat back across the riverbed.

 
“Are they re-forming?” Sarrick gasped, his entire face
streaked with dust and blood.

 “No,” replied Celedorn,
watching the scene below intently. “I don’t think so. They appear to be
withdrawing to their camp.”

 “I don’t believe it!”
exclaimed the Prince. “They can’t have given up so easily!”

 Celedorn raised his
eyebrows ironically. “I did not say they had given up.”

 As those lining the
walls watched tensely, the din issuing from the Turog began to subside. The
noise drained away, like the water from around the walls of Addania, until almost
complete silence had fallen. From amongst the black ranks, a single Turog came
forward carrying a long spear with a flag of truce tied to it.

 “Now what?” muttered
Sarrick. Raising his voice, he shouted to his own men to be quiet. An eerie
silence descended.

 The Turog advanced to
the foot of the walls where the dead were piled up like bluebottles. There was
a sudden creak of a bow being drawn, but Celedorn moved swiftly along the wall
to check such misplaced enthusiasm.

 The Turog, satisfied
that it had their attention, shouted up to them: “My commander, Gorth, Captain
of all the forces of the Lord of Darkness, he whom you call the Destroyer,
wishes to speak with your king.”

    By the
time Andarion arrived, one of the Great-turog had emerged from the ranks of the
enemy forces and taken up position beside the flag of truce, its mighty arms
folded truculently.

 Andarion leaned his
hand on one of the crenellations and looked over. When the Great-turog saw him,
he called in his deep voice: “Where is King Tharin?”

 Andarion responded
coolly. “I am Andarion, King of Eskendria.”

 “Ah! So it is true! The
old king is dead. My congratulations to you, King Andarion, not so much for
succeeding your father, but because you made it through my master’s domain
despite our best endeavours to prevent you.”

 Andarion shrugged
indifferently and as he did so, he happened to glance along the battlements and
noticed Celedorn leaning forward intensely, his entire frame as taut as a bowstring,
his gaze riveted to the Great-turog.

 “Is there a point to
this meeting?” the King asked tartly.

 “The point to this
meeting is to avoid further bloodshed.”

 Andarion was sceptical.
“Since when has that interested the Turog?”

 Gorth solemnly inclined
his head as if the King had paid him a compliment. “Let us not fence with each
other. There are two things we both know without the shadow of a doubt about
the present situation. One, is that Addania will be a difficult stronghold to
take and will cost many Turog lives: the other, is that its eventual fall is
utterly inevitable. It is just a matter of time. Now, if you wish, we can
repeat today’s performance again and again, day after day. We will attack, and
you will defend. Time and again this will happen, until you are worn down or
the city’s walls are breached. Or we can settle this in a
more.....ah.....satisfactory fashion.”

 He paused, as if for
effect. The King stared down at him with a slight frown between his brows.
“What did you have in mind?”

  “We will each select a
representative of our species to fight on behalf of the opposing armies.”

 Andarion’s eyes
narrowed in suspicion. “Now why should I agree to that?”

 “Because, as we both
know, it is your only chance of survival. If your representative defeats mine,
then we will retire back across the Harnor. If we win, you will open the gates
of the city and surrender it to us.”

 “And what if I refuse
to agree to such a contest?”

 A baleful look crept
into the Turog’s yellow eyes. “
Then-we-will-wear-you-down
,” he said,
pronouncing each word with irrefutable certainty. “We have the time and more
than enough resources. We already know that you will receive no help from
Serendar. You are alone, and each man that falls will not be replaced. You know
that what I say is true.”

 Celedorn, who had been
watching with such burning intensity that he had almost forgotten to breathe,
turned swiftly to Sarrick. “Tell your brother to delay his answer.”

 One look at Celedorn’s
face was enough for Sarrick to obey without question.

 He crossed to the King
and murmured something in his ear. Andarion looked startled for a moment,
before nodding his agreement.

 “I will consider your
words and give you my reply this evening. Come back to the wall just before
dusk.”

 Gorth grinned mockingly
and bowed in agreement. The King watched the arrogant figure stride back to the
enemy ranks, then turned swiftly to Celedorn. Before he could speak, Celedorn,
forgetting the usual courtesies, said abruptly: “I must speak with you
privately.”

 Without waiting for a
reply, he spun on his heel and descended the steps to the city street, then, at
a tremendous pace, strode up the hill towards the palace without waiting to see
whether they were following him or not. When Sarrick and the King joined him in
the royal apartments, they discovered that they had somehow picked up Relisar
in their train.

  Without the slightest
preamble, Celedorn said: “Agree to his terms, with the sole condition that he,
Gorth, must fight on behalf of the Turog.”

 Sarrick gave a yelp of
alarm. “Are you
insane
? Who on earth would we find to fight a
Great-turog?”

 Celedorn looked him in
the eyes. “I will fight him,” he answered in a quietly compelling voice.

 “He is the one?”
Andarion asked, as if in confirmation of something he already knew.

 “He is the one. My
search is over.”

 Sarrick looked wildly
back and forth between them. “What one? What are you talking about?”

 Andarion turned to his
brother. “Gorth is the Great-turog who butchered Celedorn’s family and gave him
the scars he bears. He has been searching for him for twenty years in order to
exact vengeance and now he has found him.”

 “Vengeance!” cried
Sarrick. “No man has ever defeated a Great-turog in single combat! Not ever!
Gorth will just be finishing what he started twenty years ago, by killing the
last survivor of the Westrin family.”

 “Celedorn is.......”
began Andarion, but Sarrick interrupted him.

 “Celedorn is
exceptionally skilled with the sword and a man of courage. I have seen him
fight and no longer have any doubts on that score, but he is human. What he
seeks to do is impossible.”

 “I was going to say
that he is more motivated to succeed than anyone else.”

 “It does not matter!
This is suicide - except that when he fails, he will bring all of us down with
him!”

 The King’s voice grew a
little harsh. “Well, what alternative do you propose, Sarrick? Every word that
creature spoke was true and you know it. They will wear us down, man by man,
and stone by stone, until the city falls. No one will help us. No one will come
to our aid. What do you propose we do?”

 Sarrick flung away from
him and crossing to the table, began to drum his fingers restlessly upon it.
“Gorth will laugh in our faces when he hears that we insist on fighting a
Great-turog.”

 “Nonsense,” said
Andarion sharply. “They would have sent nothing less.”

 “How can we possibly
commit all our fates into the hands of one man? I have no doubt that Celedorn
will fight to the utmost of his abilities, but I do not think it will be
enough. You have fought a Great-turog, Andarion. Could you defeat one?”

 “No, I could not. In
fact, I am fairly certain that Gorth is the Turog I fought that day in the
forest and as you know, brother, he broke my arm and would have finished me, if
you had not intervened.”

 Relisar, who up until
that moment had taken no part in the discussion, suddenly spoke up. “Celedorn
can do it. I have faith in him.”

  “As do I,” confirmed
Andarion quietly.

 Celedorn looked
directly at Sarrick. “If you refuse me permission to fight him on your behalf,”
he declared in a steely voice. “I will challenge him myself.”

 An exasperated breath
exploded from Sarrick. “Do you have a death-wish?”

 A chill smile touched
Celedorn’s grey eyes. “No. In fact, I have never had greater reason to live,
but some things are simply inevitable.”

 “Have you ever fought a
Great-turog before?”

 “Not single-handed,”
Celedorn conceded.

 “Then how do you know
you can defeat it? How do you know that you can do what no other man has done?”

 “I don’t.”

 Sarrick turned
pleadingly to his brother. “The Turog only suggest such a contest because they
know full well that whoever we send will be defeated. They only wish to save
themselves the trouble of a long siege.”

 “I am aware of that,
but somehow, don’t ask me how or why, I feel instinctively that this contest is
meant to take place. In terms of rationality, I cannot dispute what you are
saying, but against that, I must remind you that we stand no more chance of
success with a siege. All we will be doing is delaying the end and causing
great suffering. Whereas this way......this way, I feel there is some hope.”

 Sarrick, who had been
pacing the room in frustration while his brother had been speaking, stopped
before Relisar.

 “Well, Relisar? You
have the gift of percipience. What should we do?”

 “The outcome of this
contest has been hidden from me, but like the King, I too believe that it must
take place. Celedorn, who once attacked and pillaged Eskendria, must now risk
his life to save it. This was meant to be, Sarrick, do not oppose it.”

 Sarrick stared tensely
at Relisar for several moments, before suddenly bowing his head in defeat.
“Very well. I can see no other alternative.” He looked at Celedorn. “Let us
hope that the name bestowed upon you by the Turog proves prophetic.”

 When Sarrick and
Celedorn had left, Relisar remained alone with the King. The old Sage crossed
to a chair and sat down tiredly beside the bright fire burning in the hearth.

 “I am getting too old
for all this,” he murmured. “I never thought to live to see all I hold dear on
the brink of ruin. Only one man now stands between us and destruction.”

 Andarion sighed and sat
down opposite him. “I only wish that your notion that Celedorn might be
Erren-dar had proved correct.”

 “Well in a sense he
is
our champion, as he goes out to fight on our behalf.”

 “Yet he admits himself
that he is not the one. Surely you should try to summon Erren-dar one last time
before the fight takes place. Surely now the time must be right, for there may
never be another opportunity.”

 “Alas, Sire, I am an
old fool who has bungled every attempt I have ever made. Even though it turns
out that Elorin is descended from Tissro and could therefore be the key that I
had been seeking, I do not know how to use her to summon the Champion. I must
accept the bitter taste of failure. I must accept that perhaps we send our
friend out to die.”

 A wistful smile
softened Andarion’s face. “We do not send him, old friend, in fact, I don’t
think we could prevent him. Yet before he goes, he must face perhaps the most
difficult task of all - he must tell Elorin.”

 On leaving the royal
apartments, Celedorn did not immediately seek out Elorin, but went instead into
the palace gardens, responding to the overwhelming need to be alone with his
thoughts. He found a secluded spot by an old wall, where a few late blossoms of
a climbing rose opened warm, crimson faces. As he sat on the bench, a long
shaft of molten gold broke from between the heavy, grey clouds and lit up the
wall with a light that still contained a little warmth in its touch. It touched
the blood-red faces of the roses and gleamed like enamel on each glossy leaf.
It enveloped the man sitting on the bench with the tenderness of a lover’s
embrace. He was only distantly aware of it, for he sat as he always did when
deep in thought, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the
ground between his feet. It was thus that Elorin found him.

 She quietly sat beside
him, remembering how she had done something similar in the orchard of the White
Monastery, the day she had asked him to marry her.

 He did not respond to
her presence but she knew he was aware of her. At last she said: “How long do
we have?”

 Swiftly he raised his
head, realising that she already knew. “Until noon tomorrow.”

 She did not reply, but
reaching above his head, plucked a red rose from the wall and cupped it
tenderly between her hands. She said nothing. No word of anger or
recrimination. No tears or attempts to plead with him to change his mind. He
reached over, and detaching one of her hands from the rose, slid his fingers
between hers. She moved a little closer and rested her head on his shoulder.
They sat for a long time, neither moving nor speaking, until the sun moved
behind Relisar’s tower and the beam of light was cut off.

 That night, the
tenderness between them was such that it departed from the realms of the purely
physical and ascended into the realm of the soul. In the quiet darkness of the
night, they spoke of the year they had shared together, of their journey
through the Forsaken Lands. They spoke as those who treasure the past so
greatly because they can see no future. They talked of their love for each
other and the joy they had found together. They talked of everything - except
tomorrow. For the first time, Elorin noticed that when she touched her lips to
the hard ridges of the scars on his cheek, he no longer recoiled from her. It
was as if he had finally accepted that they no longer mattered, as if he had
finally realised that she loved him just as he was. When at last their words
fell silent, they lay at peace in each other’s arms, savouring the warmth and
intimacy as something that they might never share again.

 Dawn found Elorin awake
and watching over him. As the first light began to creep stealthily into the
room and the first trill of birdsong took to the chill morning air, she raised
herself on her elbow to look at him lovingly. He had drifted off to sleep, his
eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell gently. Lightly she brushed a
strand of his dark hair back from his forehead and as she did so, the
strengthening light caught the slim band of gold inlaid with tiny moonpearls
glistening on her finger. She looked at it fondly, remembering how he had given
it to her the night before.