The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (14 page)

 “What journey?”

 The head appeared to be of the opinion that he was being
deliberately obtuse, for it said tetchily: “Have you not been listening? You
have become complacent in Eskendria. You think that because you have had over
sixty years of peace that you have no enemies left. Do you think that because
the Destroyer has retreated to his frozen wastes in the north that he no longer
exists? His goal has always been to eradicate humanity like some invasive weed,
and that goal has not changed. It will remain thus until the end of time, or
until the Destroyer is himself destroyed. He retreats only to plan anew. Sixty
years, which seems so long to you, is but the blink of an eye to him. The theft
of the sword is merely a prelude to his plans.”

 “How do I find the sword?”

 “Do as you have been doing. Follow your fugitive. Remember,
some of your party will want to turn back – on no account must you agree, no
matter how hopeless things seem.”

 At that moment, a small door at the end of the hall opened
and a servant, carrying a lighted candle, emerged into the room.

 Eimer glanced up rapidly but the face once more was frozen
into its former mask of cynical laughter, all trace of animation gone.

 The servant brought the candle to him. “My Lord of Westrin
asked me to show you to your room, Your Highness.”

 “Well, he needn’t have bothered,” said Eimer, huffily. “I
am perfectly capable of getting there myself.”

 With a final glance at the carving, he headed purposefully
to the foot of the staircase, before stopping abruptly in his tracks.

 “Em…..which room is it again?” he asked plaintively.

  Vesarion had never crossed into the Forsaken Lands before.
Although the northern part of his barony bordered the Harnor, the closest he
had ever come to them was to stand on the southern edge of the chasm called the
Serpent’s Throat, and stare into the densely ranked trees on the opposite side
of the gulf. Now he was amongst those trees, heading ever deeper into the Great
Forest on the trail of the fugitive, and he liked it not at all. It was hard to
define exactly what was different about this place. The trees were the same as
across the river in Sorne; the same great oaks and beeches decked in fresh
spring greenery, the same sparse undergrowth of ground elder and wood anemones,
the same shafts of sunlight slanting between the leaves. But something in the atmosphere
was definitely different. Perhaps it was the silence. Although there were birds
amongst the branches, they seemed to call to one another with less frequency
than in Sorne, their joy in the bright spring day somehow muted. Perhaps it was
the nebulous but insistent feeling of being watched, that caused various
members of the party at intervals to turn in the saddle and look uneasily
behind them. And yet nothing that would present any danger had been seen since
they had crossed the Harnor the previous afternoon. Indeed, even spending the
night there had revealed nothing untoward.

  Pevorion had been true to his word and had dispatched his
sons to the bridges at first light on the morning after the banquet. While
awaiting their return, Vesarion had occupied himself profitably in instructing
Captain Seldro to return to Addania with orders to find out as discreetly as
possible, if the Ravenshold Brigands had obeyed their orders to return to
Westrin. He had not told Seldro the reason for his actions but there was little
need. The Captain was no fool and was perfectly aware of the state of distrust
between his master and the Crown Prince. Only one thing about his mission was
unclear to him.

 “Where will I report to you upon my return, my lord?”

 “Report here, to Forestfleet. Most likely I am going to
have to cross into the Forsaken Lands in pursuit of this accursed brat, so if I
am not here when you return, there is no point in trying to follow me into such
uncharted territory. Just wait for me here. I shouldn’t be more than a few days,
as hopefully he is not too far ahead of us.”

 Vesarion was not the only one upon whom the atmosphere was
having a baleful effect. Prince Eimer brought up the rear of the cavalcade,
uncertain whether it was his surroundings or merely the lingering effects of
his convivial evening of two night’s ago that was making him uneasy. After
sleeping off the worst of the effects of his night’s potations, he had
descended the next morning to the great hall just as everyone was sitting down to
breakfast, unaware that he was both unshaven and bleary-eyed and not a very
appetising prospect to look at across a breakfast table. He slumped down on the
seat beside Sareth, casting a surreptitious glance at the beam above him. The
wooden head was transfixed in its usual position of twisted laughter, as if
finding his confusion amusing, and he seriously began to think that he had
imagined it all. There was certainly no point in telling anyone, as he well
knew that the only response he would get would be an unmerciful teasing about
his inability to hold his wine. Indeed, Pevorion was already making ponderous
jokes at his expense, in a voice so hale and loud that the hung-over Prince
almost winced in pain. However, he was enough awake to notice that eight chairs
around the table were empty. Seven sons and one Keeper of Antiquities were
clearly missing.

 He nudged Sareth. “Where’s Bethro?”

 She looked at him in amused surprise. “I thought you’d
know. Didn’t you two roll home together in the small hours?”

 The Prince rather rashly shook his head and immediately
wished he hadn’t.

 “No,” he groaned. “He left the tavern ahead of me. I
haven’t seen him since.”

 Neither, upon enquiry, had anybody else, however, a brief
search of the castle soon revealed the answer. Bethro was blissfully asleep in
the stables, lying contentedly on his back in a stall, virtually under the
hooves of a stallion with a nasty reputation for kicking anything it didn’t
like. It took two stable lads to hold the horse and two more to get Bethro on
his feet. He peered at them myopically, swaying a little and blinking in the
strong sunlight coming through the open door, clearly without the slightest
idea how he had got there.

 By noon, my lord of Sorne’s eldest son had returned with
all the haste of a man with something urgent to impart. He was soon closeted
with his father and his guests amongst the musty books in the old study.

 “I have both good and ill tidings, father,” he announced
urgently. “The good news is that I have picked up the boy’s trail but
unfortunately it is as you suspected,  he has fled into the Forsaken Lands.
Apparently he crossed the wooden bridge at Greendell yesterday afternoon, where
he exchanged his carthorse for a riding horse at the inn. It wasn’t a straight
exchange, as a farm horse is not worth as much as a decent riding horse and he
also had to buy a saddle and some provisions, so he gave the landlord of the
inn this in payment.”

 He held out his hand and everyone leaned forward as he
uncurled his fingers to reveal a small gold signet ring sitting on his palm.
Vesarion was about to reach forward to examine it when, to his annoyance,
Bethro’s hand shot out and grasped the ring between finger and thumb, holding
it to the light to reveal that it was emblazoned with a curious symbol like a
coiled snake.

 “This is somehow familiar,” he murmured musingly, turning
it once more to catch the light. “Now where have I seen you before?”

 “Perhaps your mind would work better if you didn’t befuddle
it with ale,” observed Vesarion acidly. The object of this barb clearly wasn’t
listening but was still staring in fascination at the ring as if willing it to
answer his question.

 Sareth, who had been peeping over Bethro’s shoulder,
remarked: “The symbol is not familiar to me but it’s clearly a signet and they
are usually emblazoned with coats of arms or other marks denoting the
affiliation of the wearer – in other word, I doubt it’s just a pretty
decoration. It’s also rather small. I suppose it must be intended to be worn on
the little finger.”

 Pevorion, disinterested in the ring, and impatient with all
the talk, interrupted: “All this doesn’t matter. When you catch up with this
young troublemaker, you can choke out of him all the information you could
wish. Now, there is no time to waste. Saddle up at once and my son will take
you to Greendell.” He turned to his heir. “When you get there, tell Ferron that
he is to act as their guide – upon my orders, mind. You’re not to let him
wriggle out of it.”

 “Who is Ferron?” asked Eimer.

 “Best huntsman and tracker in all of this barony. Knows the
Forsaken Lands better than anyone. Your thief is not so far ahead of you now
and I’ll wager my last crown that Ferron will find him for you within two days
at the most. Besides, he has experience with the Turog which my lads do not.
The brutes are few in number, so I think it unlikely that they would attempt to
attack a large party like yours, but better safe than sorry and I’d feel
happier knowing I have given you my best guide.”

 Eimer, now trailing along behind Ferron through the
trackless forest, had to admit that Pevorion hadn’t lied. No mean huntsman
himself, Eimer realised within a very short space of time of meeting the lean,
rather taciturn tracker that he was completely out-classed. Ferron could read
the significance of even a bent blade of grass. He knew the alarm call of every
bird, the paw and hoof prints of every animal. He could tell if deer prints
were made by a doe or a buck and how long ago the animal had passed that way. When
they had arrived at Greendell and parted company with Pevorion’s son, they had
found him awaiting them impatiently outside the inn. He had already picked up
the trail and followed it some distance into the forest before returning to the
inn to meet with them. Now he was keen to be about his business.

 Greendell was just as it had been described to them – a
small colony of wooden houses set hard against the illusory safety of the
Harnor. It stood amongst a network of small fields that had been cleared from
the forest. The wooden houses, although of the same sharp-roofed design as in Sorne,
were much less ornate and bore the look of functionality rather than artifice.
Nevertheless, it was a pleasant little village, its meadows filled with cows
standing shoulder-high amongst the buttercups, lazily swishing their tails and
regarding with total disinterest the horsemen passing through the fields to the
inn.

 Ferron, no respecter of Vesarion’s predilection for
organising things, was gripped with urgency and would not even allow them to
dismount, but announced with authority that brooked no argument, that as the
afternoon was far advanced, they must make what speed they could in order to
gain upon the boy before night set in.

 Misunderstanding Vesarion’s expression, he added: “Never
fear, my lord, we will catch up with this lad by tomorrow. He clearly thinks
that he has shaken off pursuit, for he is not travelling at any great speed,
indeed, from the wandering nature of his trail, I sense that he is not certain
of his way. He is heading roughly northwards and that course, should he
maintain it, will lead him directly into the heart of the Forsaken Lands and
into regions that I am not acquainted with. Also, because he is travelling
alone, he is putting himself in some danger from the Turog. Those scum are
thieves, opportunists,” he explained contemptuously, “not exactly courageous,
but they will happily pick off a lone traveller, whereas they will not tackle a
party of eight, like us.” He indicated the remaining three guards. “Even if
they do spot us – which is likely – when they see heavily armed soldiers like
that, they’ll back off. There is little that goes on in the forest that they
don’t know about. Their woodcraft is such that they can melt into the trees
like ghosts when they wish to, so even if they are present, we are unlikely to
see them.”

  Eimer recalled how that night when they had camped around
the fire, Sareth had asked their guide if he had ever fought the Turog.

 “None of us has ever seen one,” she explained. “I mean,
there is a description of them in the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom which we
have all read as children – except Eimer, that is, who would never apply himself
to learning the old language. But they have always seemed unreal to me, like
the product of someone’s nightmare.”

 “They’re real enough,” replied the huntsman. “I am told
that there were three species of Turog in the old days. The worst were the Great-turog.
They were over seven feet tall and immensely strong and cunning. It was said
that no man could defeat one in single combat and no one ever did, to my
knowledge, except for Erren-dar.” He glanced at Vesarion who was staring into
the depths of the fire as is he were not listening. “Your grandfather, my lord,
must have been an exceptional swordsman.” Upon receiving no acknowledgement, he
continued: “They were all killed in the battle of Addania and now, as far as we
know, none exist. Then there were the Red Turog. They were few in number even
then, but were the most man-like, standing straighter than the common kind and
able to ride horses – although usually no horse will tolerate a Turog on its
back. They got their name from the colour of their skin which is reputed to be a
dull brick-red. They were formidable enemies in battle, as they were skilled
with both sword and mace. Whether they are all now dead or have merely returned
to their master in his frozen wasteland, I do not know. The ones that are
causing us trouble now are the common kind, which were always by far the most
numerous. They are shorter than a man, shorter than you, my lady, for you are
almost as tall as your brother. Grey skinned, they are, with yellow eyes and
long arms that end in retractable claws. They are not particularly clever or
fast but they have immense stamina and are strong for their size. Their
favourite tactic is to work in pairs to bring down a man, one attacking from
the front, the other from behind. As I said earlier, their woodcraft is
unrivalled. When they wish to move secretively through the trees, they are
impossible to track – even for me. Many times after they have conducted a raid,
I have tried to follow their trail, as I am convinced they have a lair deep in
the forest somewhere, but their tracks just disappeared as if they had vanished
into thin air.”

 Sareth looked around her into the enveloping darkness that
lay in wait beyond the comforting glow of the fire.

 “Do you think they are watching us now?”

 Ferron smiled indulgently. “Don’t worry, my lady, we have a
sentry on duty as a precaution, but there are simply not enough of them to have
the confidence to attack us. No, the Turog only pick a fight when the odds are
heavily in their favour.”

 Eimer, who had been resisting the unmanly urge to look
behind him, said: “Well I just hope we catch this thief tomorrow because I, for
one, am not at all taken with the Forsaken Lands and would be quite happy to
shake the dust from my feet and never come back. I don’t know what it is about
this place but it gives me the shivers.” A loud snore from Bethro interrupted
him at this point and everyone laughed when he jumped.

 “One of us, at least, is not worried,” laughed Sareth,
regarding the sleeper, lying flat on his back wearing a comically pious
expression on his well-fed countenance.

 Eimer’s recollections came to an abrupt halt when, for the
third time that day, Ferron held up his hand signalling to the party to halt.