The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (10 page)

 “How many?”

 “Can’t tell,”

 “Send two men to guard the horses. Maybe that’s what
they’re after.”

 Vesarion heard the low murmur as Seldro passed on his
orders and sensed, rather than saw, the two men move towards the horses in the
darkness.

 But still nothing happened.

 He crouched, sword drawn, straining his ears to detect the
sound of the attack that inevitably would come. But all he heard was the dismally
dripping trees, the soft snort and stamp of the horses, and the occasional
whimper from Bethro who had gone to ground somewhere. He glanced at the sky,
wondering what time it was, but there was not even the faintest hint of dawn to
be seen.

 When the attack came, it did so with a suddenness and
ferocity not to be expected from mere criminals with no greater motivation than
gain. Several dark figures launched themselves through the trees. He heard a crash
that sounded like someone falling, then the clash of weapons over by the
horses. He had no time to take in anything more, for an assailant was upon him.
The lack of vision meant that this was no sophisticated fight with tactics and
skill, but a desperate scramble for survival.

 A dark form loomed up out of the blackness and Vesarion
struck out with his sword, keeping the blow low in the hope of taking his
opponent in the legs, but in the darkness he misjudged the distance and missed.
Some instinct told him to duck and as he did so his opponent’s sword sliced
through the air just a fraction above his head. Vesarion sprang forward, his
shoulder colliding heavily with the man, bringing them both down in a bruising
fall. At such close quarters, his sword was more of an encumbrance than a help
and releasing it, he swung back his right fist and threw a punch that connected
with his opponent with a satisfying crunch. The man had also abandoned his
sword, but he was a heavy brute, clearly used to brawling. He recovered at once
and landed a tremendous blow that was intended to take Vesarion in the stomach
but which, misdirected in the darkness, instead caught him in the ribs.

 Vesarion staggered back against someone who turned out to
be Sareth. She gave a slight cry of pain and rounded on him, ready to defend
herself, but Sareth had excellent night vision and suddenly realising who it
was, she reversed her grip on her hunting knife and thrust the hilt into his
hand. He had only just time to push her out of the way, before his opponent
brought him down again. Vesarion, pinned underneath his burly attacker, and
finding his windpipe taken in a lethal grip, took the only option open to him –
he plunged the heavy hunting knife almost up to its hilt in the man’s neck. Warm
blood sprayed everywhere as the man went rigid, then the pressure on Vesarion’s
throat slackened as his opponent suddenly sagged against him.

 Eimer, knowing nothing of his cousin’s plight, had joined in
the melee at the horses. He orientated himself on the confused cacophony of
clashing weapons and shouting, and was soon in the thick of it, lashing out
with his sword and praying that he didn’t mistake a friend for an enemy in the
poor light. From what he could gather, the Ravenshold contingent was outnumbered
and getting the worst of it. They had lost another soldier but were fighting
stubbornly, showing no inclination to give in, and suddenly, faced with such
unexpectedly aggressive victims, their attackers began to lose their appetite
for the fight.

 He heard one of them shout: “Leave the horses. Let’s get
out of here!”

 The others seemed to be in agreement with him, for in an
instant they disengaged and began to retreat through the trees. Eimer had no
intention of letting them get away so easily and hounded them relentlessly,
supported tenaciously by Seldro and two of the Ravensholders. However, their
assailants had the advantage of the poor light and managed to slip away, one by
one, and melt into the darkness amongst the trees.

 The first grey threads of dawn revealed a dismal sight.
Three corpses lay on the damp ground, the raindrops still dripping from the
trees onto their frozen faces. Two were soldiers who had lost their lives, and
the third was the dead bandit, still with Sareth’s hunting knife buried to the
hilt in his neck, his eyes staring vacantly at the grey sky.

 Vesarion, covered in blood and holding his side, bent and
with some distaste, withdrew the blade and wiped it clean on the man’s clothes.

 Sareth’s eyes flew wide with alarm when he turned to hand
her the knife.

 “Vesarion! You’re hurt!”

 He shook his head. “No, this blood isn’t mine. I must have
severed his artery with your knife, which would explain why there is so much of
it.” He did not add that it was the first time he had killed a man in close
combat. Eskendria had, indeed, become a civilised place in recent years.

 “Perhaps it was as well that I came, after all,” she
suggested ingenuously.

 “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, refusing to be beguiled.
“What if something had happened to you? Exactly how am I supposed to explain to
the King that I let his daughter come to harm? I hold to what I originally
said, we would do better if you and Bethro had remained at home.”

 She raised her brows at the tone. “Courteously said.”

 He had the grace to acknowledge the hit, but his smile
contained the suggestion of a wince of pain which was not lost on her.

  “You
are
hurt. What’s wrong with your side? You’d
better let me see.”

 But he held out his hand to fend her off. “No, don’t fuss.
It’s only a bruise. Where’s Eimer?”

“Off to see if he can trace where they’ve gone. I’ve told
him not to go far.”

 Seldro approached them, his face grave. “We lost two good
men to those scum, my lord. I have never known mere forest bandits to be such
tough fighters. I think we had a narrow escape. What are your orders now, sir?”

 Vesarion, hand still pressed to his ribs, said: “Tie the
bodies of our men across their horses. We’ll take them to the village of Elig
for a decent burial. We also need to get some dry clothes.” He glanced at his
attire. “And I want to get all this blood off me.”

  It was left to Sareth to point out that something was
missing. “Has anyone seen Bethro,” she asked, looking around the glade in vain.

 Vesarion spun round, his eyes searching the forest. “Now
where has the silly fool got to?” he demanded harshly.

 “I take it the bandits didn’t carry him off?”

 This suggestion appeared to amuse him, for he could not
suppress a chuckle. “Not unless they brought a hoist with them.”

They finally found Bethro curled up in a tight ball in a
little hollow a short distance away, with his eyes screwed shut and his hands
pressed over his ears.

 Sareth, in some amusement, bent and touched his shoulder.
He gave a terrified gasp and sat up like a startled rabbit.

 “It’s all right, Bethro,” she assured him. “It’s all over.
They’ve gone.”

 He pressed his hand to his heart in relief. “I nearly
expired with fright – especially when one of them fell over me in the darkness.
I am adapted, I think, for a more civilised existence.”

 She smiled. “Nonsense, Bethro. You are a true adventurer.”

 “Ah,” he sighed, oblivious to mockery, “but that was a
little too much excitement for one of my delicate constitution.”

 “You know, Bethro, it was your warning that saved us. I
dread to think what would have happened if they had found us all asleep.”

 He brightened considerably at that and she knew that in his
imagination he was picturing himself as Bethro the Hero.

 “Delighted to be of service,” he remarked in his usual
pompous style.

 “You could be of a little more service, if you wish. I
believe you have some knowledge of herbs and medicine and my lord of Westrin
has been hurt. He won’t let me see the injury but perhaps you could persuade
him.”

 He looked at her doubtfully. “I have no practical knowledge
of such things. All my learning has been gained from books, nevertheless, I
will certainly do my best.”

 By a mixture of coaxing, cajoling and nagging he managed to
persuade Vesarion to sit down on a tree trunk and pull his shirt out of his
belt. It revealed a nasty red contusion on his side.

 Bethro, with surprising skill, gently probed it with his
fingers, eliciting several winces of pain from his victim.

 Finally, he sat back on his heels, satisfied with his
findings.

 “I am no expert, my lord, but I do not think the ribs have
been broken. A painful enough injury that will cause you trouble for some days,
but not serious. Perhaps,” he continued diplomatically, “a change of shirt
would be in order. This one is, shall we say, a tad
gory
.”

 Eimer returned just as they were packing up to go.

 “I have no good news, Vesarion. I followed the villains on
foot, tracking them for some distance through the forest until I came to a spot
where they had tethered their horses. I can tell you that there were fifteen
horses and they set off in the direction of Addania but the torrential rain has
obscured their trail. I then returned along the edge of the road leading to Elig
and have even worse news – there is no sign of the boy. I tried to pick up his
tracks where we left off yesterday, but everything has been washed away.”

 “I see. We should not be distracted by this encounter from
following our main objective - which is to find the boy. All that we know is
that he was heading in the direction of Sorne, so I think our best plan is to
go to Forestfleet and ask Pevorion to make enquiries at the bridges over the
Harnor, to establish if he has crossed into the Forsaken Lands. We will stop
briefly at Elig and then we must press on with all speed.”

 The boy sat miserably on the ground in the darkness,
clutching the end of the long driving reins. In reality, he need not have
bothered holding on so tightly, because there was utterly no possibility of his
large mount going anywhere. The carthorse had been worked harder in the last
few hours than in the whole of its sedate existence. It was used to trundling
along at an untaxing walking pace, pulling a cart loaded with hay or such-like,
and could not understand the haste demanded by the young rider stuck like a
burr to its broad back. Now, finally, the headlong rush appeared to have
stopped. Just as darkness fell they had found an open glade in the forest where
some grass grew and the horse, stationary at last, settled down to making short
work of  it. Its exhausted rider, less adapted to the weather, sat in the rain,
soaked, shivering and ears alert for the slightest sound of pursuit.

 Several times during the course of the afternoon, he had
left the road and sought the concealment of the ash trees when he had seen
another traveller approaching, for he was well aware that his horse was just
too recognisable to risk an encounter. A couple of times he had almost been
caught out, as the trees, or a sharp bend in the road, hid an on-comer from
sight until the last moment. His sense of hearing was his most reliable asset
and just as a gloomy dusk was settling on the forest, he detected the sound of
many horses approaching. He pulled his animal behind the concealment of some
bushes barely in the nick of time, just as a large party of horsemen, all armed
to the teeth, had galloped past. But then the rain had started and it got dark
so quickly he had been forced to stop. He had consumed the pastry squashed into
his pocket before it got too wet to be edible, but it was nowhere near enough
to satisfy him and consequently he now added ‘hungry’ to his list of woes.

 However, despite the rain and his growling stomach, he discovered
that he must have dozed off, because sometime later he awoke with a start, his
heart thumping, aware that something alarming had penetrated his unconscious
mind. He gripped the reins, listening intently. The rain had stopped and the
forest was deathly quiet. Then in the silence, he heard it again – the clash of
weapons and men shouting. A battle of some kind was clearly taking place in the
forest at no great distance behind him, and into his mind flashed the image of
the mounted men who had passed him. He remembered their faces with great
clarity, for all bore a certain grim determination that boded no good for those
the object of their journey. All he knew for certain was that it was something
that he dare not get caught up in, so night-time or not, he must obey his
instincts to get as far away as possible.

 Carefully, he gathered up the long reins and grasping his
horse by the bridle, he cautiously began to lead it between the trees, feeling
his way between the trunks in the darkness. Gradually the sound of fighting
grew fainter and fainter until it ceased altogether. He plodded on in silence,
not really sure of his position, trying to keep to his previous northerly
direction, towards the river Harnor. The first twitter of birdsong alerted him
to the fact that dawn was breaking. The weak, grey light revealed the dense
ranks of ash trees all around him – and not the slightest sign of the road.
From the position of the rising sun, he knew he had been travelling in roughly
the correct direction, but he had parted company with the road entirely and was
now forced to admit that he was completely lost.

 Amongst all the baronies of Eskendria with their various
distinctive characteristics, Sareth decided that Sorne was her favourite - with
the sole exception of Westrin. No two baronies could have been more different. Westrin
was a land of high, jagged peaks, rearing their heads to tear the sky,
interspersed by sheltered green valleys stretching like long fingers into the
depths of the mountains. Sorne, in sharp contrast, was a barony of dense, shady
forests - not pine forests like the ones that skirted the frozen peaks of
Westrin - but gracious deciduous woods, lush and verdant in summer and starkly
bare in shades of brown and grey in the winter months.

  Even the main residences of the respective barons were
vastly different. Ravenshold, or Sadris-karn as it was known in the old
language, was set on an impregnable pinnacle of iron-grey rock that thrust its
way through the thin skin of a high mountain valley. It was surrounded by the natural
fortifications of the jagged ramparts of the mountains, their ranges piled up
upon one another’s shoulders into the purple distance. Even at the height of
summer the tallest peaks were magically snow-tipped, often flushed gold or pink
by the sun at first or last light. Forestfleet did not aspire to such grandeur.
It nestled between the trees in comfortable anonymity, content to dream tranquilly
through the passing of the seasons.

 By virtue of the fact that almost the entire barony was
densely wooded, its people were attuned to the forest in all that they did. It
dictated the rhythm of their lives, their work, even the structure of their
homes. Although there was some arable land to the east, most Sorneans gained
their livelihood from the trees. There were charcoal burners tending their
smouldering fires in glades so deep in the woods that only they could find
them, supplying fuel for forges throughout the Kingdom, especially the
armourers and goldsmiths of Addania. Sorne produced the most skilled and
beautiful wooden objects in the Kingdom, from the magnificent carved oak beams
in the throne room at Addania, to the humble benches outside every county tavern.
From delicate jewel boxes inlaid with the subtle tones of exquisite marquetry
and furniture wondrously carved with mythical beasts, to humble buckets and
ladders. Young boys were taught the art of carving almost as soon as they could
walk and the Sorneans’ skill was known as far away as the Isles of Kelendore
and the Great Sand Desert of the south.

 Sorne was distinctive in other ways as well. Unlike the
principal towns of  most of the other baronies, the town of Sorne was not protected
by a defensive wall set amongst open fields. By contrast, it was situated in
the heart of the forest and was unbounded by any wall, as if its people somehow
considered the harsh intrusion of stone an affront to the living vibrancy of
the forest. Only the old castle of Forestfleet was walled and even then, the
grey stone was so mottled and softened with velvet green mosses and lichens
that it had acquired a rather organic appearance, as if it was some exotic
fungal growth that had sprung up one night, like the many mysterious toadstools
found along the rotting logs in autumn.

 Although it was a mere six months since Sareth had last
visited Sorne, she was glad to return, for she was fond of Lord Pevorion’s
wife, Kelda. She never ceased to be astonished by the fact that no matter how
often she visited the town, she always discovered that she was right in the middle
of it before she had even realised that she had arrived. The trees had not been
cut down to create a clearing for the houses but instead, in deference to their
sanctity, they were interspersed between the massive trunks. They nestled
discreetly under the spreading branches that supported the high canopy, as if conscious
that they were an intrusion. Indeed, as was natural in people so dependent on
the forest, many of the ancient superstitions about the woodland lingered on.
Tales passed down through the generations, migrated into unchallenged folklore.
Tales of mysterious beasts and winged serpents. In the days of the Old Kingdom,
it had been said that the spirits of the forest lived in the greatest of the
trees. The mightiest of the oaks, beeches and hornbeams each had a resident
spirit that guarded the forest and punished those who treated it with
disrespect. Such tales were treated seriously. Before any mature tree was cut
down, the woodsmen cast wooden discs on the ground before it, carved with mystical
symbols whose origin was long forgotten, to determine that the tree was
unoccupied. If a man valued his life, it was not considered wise to deprive a
wood spirit of its home. Thus the oldest and greatest of the trees around the
town of Sorne were inviolate and the people preferred to live harmoniously between
such mighty specimens, with the wood sprites as their invisible, but benign, neighbours.

 The first intimation that one had arrived, was the
occasional house, its wooden walls and steeply-shingled roof blending so
harmoniously with its surroundings that one had to look carefully to see it. Amongst
the dim browns and greens of the forest it was almost invisible. Soon more and more
houses began to appear as the unsurfaced road, little more than a beaten track,
somewhat illogically began to twist and turn between trees of staggering girth.
Pointed roofs and ornate verandas, peering around the boles like curious
children, began to appear. Every available surface of each house fell victim to
its occupants’ prevailing passion for carving. Doorframes, shutters, railings,
even the edges and undersides of the deep eaves that overhung the porches were
all intricately carved in sharply raised relief according to the taste and
skill of the owner. Forest themes were the most popular. Tree and leaf motifs
were abundant, followed by birds and flowers. Even larger forest fauna were present
– mainly deer and boar. Squirrels were well represented, their playful nature
depicted by showing them chasing each other, nose to tail around window frames
and pillars.

 The dismal clouds of the night before had melted away to be
replaced with soft spring sunshine, now finding its way through holes in the
canopy to cast spears of mellow afternoon light in pools on the ground. It
filtered through the leaves, creating a gentle subaqueous glow that blended
gold and green with such skill it almost became a living thing with substance
of its own. The only spots of colour that were not in complete harmony with
such sylvan surroundings were the doors of the houses. Recessed deeply under
the eaves, they could be seen by the travellers only by bending low over the
horses’ necks. The Sorneans represented each season by a colour. Spring was
blue, summer was buttercup yellow and autumn was an appropriate berry red. Only
winter was dull, represented by a subtle grey – which didn’t seem, from its
scarcity, to be much in favour.

 Vesarion, preoccupied as he had been over the preceding
years with governing Westrin, had not been to Sorne since he was a boy and was
surprised how much he had forgotten. He looked around him with interest, trying
to ignore the train of rather noisy urchins they seemed to have acquired, all
skipping along behind them like a wedding procession. He noted that even the
inns and the workshops of the artisans were all constructed in wood with the
same appealing sharp-roofed design. They, too, were all adorned with the
seemingly inexhaustible exuberance of the carvings. But Vesarion also looked at
it in a more practical light and failed to understand why a barony so close to
the river Harnor, which still formed the boundary of the Kingdom with the
Forsaken Lands, should be so ill-defended.  As they came within sight of the
castle, he noticed, disapprovingly, that even Forestfleet’s walls were in poor
repair, and were not, in his opinion, nearly high enough to fulfil their
purpose. The portcullis suspended over the main gate, was quietly rusting into
oblivion, its chains wound round a winch that was now probably incapable of
turning. Even the moat had little water in it and was instead full of
buttercups.

 The arrangement inside the walls was even less satisfactory
from a defensive point of view, by virtue of the fact that all the buildings
were made of the Sorneans’ favourite building material. Should the castle ever
come under siege, he reflected, a few well-placed fire arrows was all it would
take to start a conflagration. He indicated as much to Prince Eimer riding
beside him, but the Prince, delighted with all he saw, especially the cosy
inns, merely responded that Eskendria had been at peace for over sixty years
and the days were gone when one had to be obsessive about defence.

 The comment was so logical, it caused Vesarion to wonder
why he was so preoccupied with such issues. He came to the conclusion that
close proximity to the Forsaken Lands always had the effect of making him
uneasy. Westrin was also bounded to the north by the Harnor, but unlike Sorne, where
the river was deep but wide and placid, at Westrin the Harnor plunged into a
deep gorge known as The Serpent’s Throat. There, confined by the twists and
turns of the iron-hard rocks, the river changed in nature. It lost all its
former civility and became wilful and untamed, crashing and churning in fury
against the confines of the narrow gorge. The Serpent’s Throat was a natural
defence, impossible to ford  and virtually impossible to bridge – although the
Turog had once managed it. In contrast, Sorne had four bridges that spanned the
river, ranging in size and grandeur from the lovely stone bridge of the Twelve
Arches that had been restored after the war, to several rather rickety affairs,
put up by the local people to give access to the few villages that had sprung
up along the edge of the Forsaken Lands.

 In this, as in all else, the two baronies differed. No one
from Westrin had ever expressed the smallest desire to cross the river and live
on the fringes of the Forsaken Lands. Although it had once been infested by
Turog, little had been seen or heard of the few to survive the great battle, but
their evil reputation lived on. He assumed that the Sorneans had been tempted
by the Great Forest because of their love of woodland, but in his opinion his
own people showed more sense in sticking to civilised regions. In recent days,
he had heard a whisper that all was not well in the settlements across the
river. He had heard tales of renegade Turog grown bold once more. It would be
interesting to find out the truth from Lord Pevorion.

 He knew the master of Sorne slightly from their meetings each
year when all the barons assembled in Addania to take the oath of loyalty to the
King. Although Pevorion was some twenty years older than Vesarion, he was not
the man to demand the respect due to his seniority but was happy to share a
glass of wine with any convivial companion and laugh loudly and heartily at the
simplest of jokes. He had always struck Vesarion as a bluff, straightforward
man, not much given to plotting or indeed any other strenuous mental exercise.
He had the reputation of ruling his barony fairly, protecting those who obeyed
the law, but was ruthless with those who transgressed. He did not mince his
words and was always perfectly prepared to damn and blast anyone who annoyed
him. Vesarion, usually able to read his fellow man quite accurately, thought
that a lengthy conversation with Lord Sorne would most assuredly reveal to him
whether the man was playing a deep game or not. His first priority was still
the thief but there was no harm in killing two birds with one stone. Despite
all he had said to Enrick, the issue of Pevorion’s loyalty was by no means
straightforward.

 Notwithstanding their lord’s notorious informality, the
urchins fell short of entering Forestfleet. When the party passed beneath the
rusting portcullis, they melted away, unwilling to be berated in his lordship’s
thunderous accents. The travellers emerged into a cobbled courtyard that dozed
gently in the warm afternoon sunshine. It was deserted except for an ancient retainer
sitting on a bench cleaning tack. Their arrival went unacknowledged and
apparently unnoticed. To Seldro’s displeasure, no one challenged their right to
enter the castle and the reason was quite evident – there was not a single
sentry on duty. To someone accustomed to the strict discipline of  such a
formidable fortress as Ravenshold, this laxity was inexcusable.

 The wooden buildings inside the walls were exactly like the
ones in the town only larger, and, if possible, even more ornate. Every
available surface was adorned in raised relief with the barony’s crest – a red
hart within a border of chalice flowers. The tall double doors at the top of
the flight of steps that led to the great hall were unencouragingly shut.

 Eimer twisted round impatiently in the saddle. “This is a
fine welcome,” he declared. “Where is everyone? Are they all asleep?”
Addressing the only person in sight, he called to the old man: “Hey, you there!
Where is Lord Pevorion?”

 The man looked up slowly and cupped his hand to his ear.
“Eh? What’s that? Speak up, young man. Don’t mumble. Can’t abide mumblers.”

 Vesarion suppressed a grin and said in an undertone: “That
is one battle of wits you are not going to win.”

 But before Eimer could reply, one of the doors of the great
hall opened and a diminutive middle-aged woman appeared, plainly dressed and
carrying a basket of apples on her hip.

 She started when she saw the number of riders confronting
her. Vesarion, assuming that she was a maid, and about to address her as such,
was saved by his betrothed from making an embarrassing mistake.

 “Kelda!” Sareth called delightedly and swinging her leg
over the pommel in a manner that drew a disapproving look from Vesarion, she
slid from the saddle. “I hope you have a welcome for me, because it’s not six
months since I last imposed myself upon you.”