The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (18 page)

 She began to wonder if she had created a fantasy figure in
her head that bore no resemblance to the real man. When he had retreated to his
romantic castle amongst the snow-tipped mountains she, deprived of his
presence, had perhaps woven a daydream, investing him with qualities he did not
possess. And yet the feeling that beneath the cool, practical exterior there
was warmth in him, would not die, despite all evidence against it. She had
always suspected that Vesarion had two different layers to him, like strata in
a rock. The surface one, which he wished the world to see, was typified by his
role as Lord of Westrin. This was the poised, remote personality, very much in
control of every situation. But underneath she felt there was another Vesarion,
who was warm and compassionate and not always very certain of himself – and
this was the one she loved. Yet in recent years, she had seen so little of this
aspect to him, she began to wonder if it existed at all. She had thought that
being more frequently in his company was bound to reveal it, but if it was
there at all, it was effectively hidden behind the impenetrable wall he had
built around himself in his role as master of the greatest barony in the Kingdom.

 So Sareth lay on her back on the unyielding ground, looking
up at a patch of dark sky visible between the leaves, her eyes fixed on a tiny,
distant star, and wondered if she was a fool.

 Not so very far away, the object of her thoughts could not
sleep either, but for a very different reason - Bethro was snoring.

 They had followed the river upstream, impeded by the twists
and turns of the ravine walls which, after initially broadening, had shown
signs of narrowing again. The damp rocks had relentlessly drawn closer together
as they travelled upstream. Finally, they had arrived at a small tongue of
shingle around which the river looped. Beyond it the passage narrowed so much
that a man standing in the middle of the river could have stretched out his
hands and touched either wall. They could go no further, in any event, because
it was now fully dark. Bethro, after spending some time complaining of hunger,
soon fell asleep on the shingle and was now producing a noise of such volume
that Vesarion wondered why every Turog in the region was not down upon them.

 So, unable to sleep, he paced back and forth across the
short strip of shingle, listening to the sounds of the night - the soft bubble
of the river, the occasional trill of a night bird and the somewhat less
appealing sound of his companion. He paced his allotted stretch and as was his
custom, was going over in his mind the events of the day, when for some reason,
with crystal clarity he saw before him Sareth’s face as she had thrust the
sword through her opponent’s throat. He knew, without having to think about it
too much, exactly what it was that had so disturbed him about it – not the thought
that she could kill, but the observation that she was completely unafraid. He
had seen concentration in her look, determination, but no fear, and what
troubled him so much was that he could not say the same thing of himself. When
he had been fighting the Turog trying to entrap him, he had known fear such as
he had never experienced before. All his experience as Lord of Westrin had not
provided for this. His natural element was command, ruling his barony or
directing the Ravenshold Brigands. He was even perfectly confident that he
could contain Enrick’s plotting, but nothing in his civilised existence had
prepared him for the experience of being alone, surrounded by a group of shrieking
Turog intent on butchering him, with no help at hand and no one to command.

 He reflected that Westrin, once the most lawless barony,
was now a model of civility. On the rare occasions he had to deal with any
serious breach of order, he had at his disposal a crack cavalry regiment, every
member of which would obey him instantly and without question. Never before had
he been forced to rely solely on his own strength and courage.

 Then there was Bethro. Not only had there been a marked
absence of instant obedience, but he had been forced into lengthy and
acrimonious arguments in order to achieve his purpose. Yet Bethro’s
helplessness meant that he was relying on Vesarion to save them both, and in
truth, he was far from sure what was going to happen next. All he could hope
for was to find a way of escaping the trap that the ravine was rapidly becoming,
find the others, and return just as quickly as possible, to the more
predictable regions south of the Harnor. He had carried out his orders from the
King and apprehended the fugitive. His task was therefore done. He had no
intention of going off on a wild goose chase after the sword. He appreciated
its symbolic significance, but did not believe for an instant all the mythical
powers attributed to it. Nor did he believe the girl’s wild tale of demons of
darkness and hidden kingdoms. She would find that he was not so easily
deceived, no matter how gullible the others might be.

 No, he would not embark on such a nonsensical quest but
would insist on their immediate return to Eskendria, where more urgent issues
still remained to be dealt with.

  It was hunger that eventually awoke Vesarion the next
morning. Even before he was properly conscious, he was aware of a gnawing,
empty feeling in his stomach. He opened his eyes to find that  he was lying on
his side on the shingle bar, his head pillowed on his arm, looking across the
river at the far wall of the ravine, just now artistically webbed with a net of
shimmering golden light cast upwards by some magical angle of sun and water. He
lay for a moment peacefully watching it, mesmerised by the beauty of the
delicate lacework of light wavering with elfin beauty against the mossy stone.
Then suddenly he realised its significance – it meant he had over-slept. The
sun only found its way into the ravine when it was high in the sky. He sat up
abruptly, estimating by the position of the sun that it was mid-morning.
However, his gaze then fell on an even more interesting sight. Bethro was standing
in the middle of the stream, trousers rolled up, back bent, utterly intent upon
something in the river just in front of him. His hands were immersed in the
water up to his wrists and he was lowering them with infinitesimal slowness,
his concentration absolute. Suddenly, with astonishing speed, he struck and
with a deft flick of the wrist and a flash of silver, a small trout landed on
the shingle. It writhed and flopped in front of Vesarion’s astonished gaze
until Bethro waded out of the water to deliver the fatal blow.

 “Ah!” he exclaimed in satisfaction, seeing Vesarion sitting
up. “You are awake, my lord. Four small trout as a peace offering,” he announced,
lining them up proudly on the shingle.

 “Peace offering?”

 Bethro looked uncomfortable. “Well…er…I may have been a
shade
trying
yesterday,” he offered, with masterly understatement.

 Vesarion shook his head in wonderment. “Bethro,” he
declared, “you never cease to amaze me. I didn’t know you had such skill.”

 The fisherman grinned from ear to ear, creating three
double chins, delighted with the compliment and Vesarion realised, to his
shame, that it was the first kind word he had ever spoken to him.

 “It requires patience and a cunning hand,”  replied Bethro
a little pompously. “I was very good at trout tickling as a boy because I
always seemed to know where the fish were to be found. Being a trifle
sturdily
built, even then, it was the only sport I excelled at.” He looked fondly at his
catch as if the sight evoked happy memories of sun-dappled streams. “It’s just
a pity we have no means of cooking them.”

 “I might be able to help you there,” offered Vesarion,
reaching into his pocket to withdraw a little silver box beautifully engraved
with a hunting scene. The edge of the lid was inlaid with a border of tiny
pieces of  turquoise.

 “How exquisite,” Bethro exclaimed, ever appreciative of
beauty.  Leaning forward to examine it more closely, he asked: “What is it’s
purpose?”

 Vesarion opened the box to reveal flint and steel. “It was
a gift from the King,” he explained. “He gave it to me for my twelfth birthday.
He said it might come in useful someday, although I don’t suppose he had this
precise scenario in mind. It’s really too ornate to be carried around in one’s
pocket, but for some reason I always like to have it with me.”

 He had been studying the little box sitting on his palm but
he suddenly looked up and caught a rather unexpected look of understanding on
his companion’s face. A little embarrassed in case he had revealed too much, he
said gruffly: “If you gather some of the sticks brought down by the river,
we’ll see what can be done.”

 Using the tip of Vesarion’s sword, Bethro, rather awkwardly
managed to gut the fish and cooked them on sticks over the small fire that the
King’s gift had procured. By the time the meal was finished, each was in
perfect charity with the other – a state of affairs that was almost certain not
to last.

 After concealing all traces of the fire, they began to wade
upstream, scanning the walls as they went for a means of escape. The fringe of
pebbles had gone and now the walls rose sheer out of the water, their surface
furred with lichens. A few times Vesarion attempted to climb out but was forced
to drop back again in frustration. Eventually they came to a place where some
large boulders had piled up at the foot of the cliff and beyond that, the floor
of the river fell away suddenly into a long, deep pool. The colour of the water
had been growing darker  as they travelled towards its source, tainted with
peat brought down from its birthplace high on some heathery moorland. Where the
walls opened their oppressive embrace a little and the sun plumbed the depths, it
turned them to translucent amber, magnifying with remarkable clarity every
rounded stone on the river bed, and some tiny brown trout, well out of Bethro’s
reach. The pool continued for some distance before a sharp spur of cliff thrust
forward, cutting off their vision upstream.

 Vesarion stared into the limpid depths. “If we are to
proceed any further it looks as though we’ll have to swim.”

 “Ah-hem,” coughed Bethro, in the manner of someone with an
announcement to make.

 Heart sinking, Vesarion raised an enquiring eyebrow.

 “I…er….suppose,” began Bethro tentatively, “this would be a
bad time to tell you that I can’t swim.”

 “You can’t swim?” repeated Vesarion disbelievingly. “Are
you telling me that the intrepid catcher of trout can’t actually swim a
stroke?”

 “I’m afraid not. I’m quite happy standing knee-deep in
water but that’s as far as it goes.”

 Vesarion looked at the deep pool, a little at a loss.
Finally he said: “It may not be worth our while proceeding any further in any
event. We have seen nothing so far to suggest that we are going to find any way
out of this accursed trap. I’ll swim as far as the spur to see if the passage
ahead offers anything but I have a feeling we are going to have to turn back.”

 He started to shed his clothes onto the mossy rocks, and
Bethro, always a little prudish, promptly turned his back.

 At first the water was numbingly cold, causing the swimmer
to gasp, but as he glided forward, propelled by long, over-arm strokes,
Vesarion began to enjoy the experience. He remembered that he had always liked
swimming as a boy and realised, with a sense of astonishment, that it was a
very long time since he had indulged in anything so carefree. Perhaps his
dedication to duty had been a little too single-minded in recent years, he
reflected, with an uncharacteristic twinge of regret. The golden water flowed
over him like cool silk, but he soon detected a current pushing against him and
had to put a little more power into his strokes in order to reach the spur of
rock. However, all that awaited him when he got there was disappointment. He
grasped the sharp edge of the spur and began treading water to maintain his
position. It did him little good, for all that he could see upstream was a
dark, gloomy tunnel filled with deep water now rendered a forbidding black
again by the shadowy walls. The way was clearly impassable, even for him.

 He retreated, letting the current carry him until he
emerged once again on the rocks where Bethro was anxiously awaiting him. The
Keeper of Antiquities handed him his shirt while looking steadfastly in a
skywards direction. However, Bethro’s over-developed sense of modesty turned
out to be a blessing in disguise, for his upwards gaze led him to notice the
presence of a little rill descending the side of its greater cousin from the
forest above. As the weather had been dry for the last few days, its feeble
flow had shrunk to a few drips, but over the years its persistence had carved
an erratic little channel that offered the possibility of some handholds.
Bethro pointed out its presence to Vesarion, just as he was buckling on his
scabbard. Tightening his belt, he stood back as far as the rocks would permit
and shielding his eyes against the light, examined it minutely.

 “You’re right,” he confirmed. “It offers possibilities but
it looks highly slippery. You’d better stay here while I give it a try. Here,
hold my sword. It will only get in my way.”

 “Be careful,” advised Bethro nervously, gingerly clutching
the sword by the hilt.

 “Don’t worry. You forget that I was born in the Westrin
mountains and was therefore taught to climb almost as soon as I could walk.”

 As Vesarion began the ascent, he soon discovered that he had
spoken no less than the truth - the climb was far from easy. Although the rill
provided some hand and toe-holds, the water had so saturated the mosses that
they had become like sponges, squeezing out water with the slightest pressure,
causing his foot to slip on more than one heart-stopping occasion. But at last,
forehead damp with perspiration, he emerged above the rim of the ravine to find
himself high up amongst a sparse stand of pine trees, a fresh breeze ruffling
his hair. Behind the trees lay a heather-covered upland, dotted with stands of
pines and bright yellow gorse bushes. He stood breathing deeply, feeling like
someone released from prison, and slowly pivoted on his heel to get his
bearings. The first thing he realised was that he had emerged from the ravine
on the opposite side to the one by which he had so precipitately entered it. He
turned to look at the far side, still densely clothed in trees, and wondered
where the others were. A brief stab of apprehension pierced him, as the thought
that they might all be dead shot across his mind, but he shook it off fiercely.
If he could survive with a dead weight like Bethro in tow, then they could,
too. He could not afford to distract his thoughts with speculation, because
Bethro and he were very far from being out of trouble yet. With well-practised
self-control, he put his fears out of his mind and turned to the immediate
problem of how to get one portly librarian up a slippery cliff face. Moving
cautiously, he descended the rock wall once more, marking his route carefully
in his mind. He had prepared himself for arguments from Bethro, dissention,
even hysteria, judging from past experience, but in the end he got none. Left
alone at the bottom of the cliff with no more hope of salvation than Vesarion’s
goodwill, Bethro came to two very sensible conclusions – that it would not be
wise to alienate his rescuer, and that as there appeared to be no other way out
than upwards, there was no point in quibbling about the risks involved in the
climb.

 So Vesarion, much to his surprise, found a chastened Bethro
awaiting him, apprehensive but willing to obey orders.

 Directing Bethro to go first so that he could help him find
footholds, Vesarion began the delicate task of guiding him up the cliff. He
could clearly hear his charge making short, gasping breaths indicative of panic
and occasionally they had to stop altogether for Bethro to summon up the
courage to go on, but this time he managed to keep both his head and his
footing.

 At last, with immense relief, they emerged from the shadowy
void up into the windy heights amongst the pine trees. Without a word, Bethro
sat down with a thump on the pine needles as if his legs had given way under
him, and inwardly vowed never to leave his comfortable study in Addania again.
But Vesarion stood staring across the ravine, his gaze distant, asking a
question in his mind to which there was no answer.

 Had Vesarion but known it, Prince Eimer, too, was having
difficulty with argumentative charges. He was perfectly used to bickering with
his strong-minded sister but he soon discovered that he had acquired yet
another female of decided opinions. Iska, it soon emerged the following
morning, was not convinced that their friends had proceeded upstream and was
all for following the Turogs’ trail leading in a downward direction, on the assumption
that they must be in pursuit of them. A sharp argument ensued during which some
totally uncalled-for aspersions were cast on his tracking abilities. The
skirmish was rapidly degenerating to infant level, when Sareth intervened to
throw her weight behind her brother’s opinion. She suggested that they should
try upstream for a short distance in the hope of picking up some trace of them.
Iska sulked a bit at being overruled, but when it came to such matters,
experience had taught Sareth that Eimer’s instincts were seldom wrong. After
travelling for a few hours, her faith in him was once again proved justified.
Eimer had been dismounting periodically to peer into the depths of the ravine
in the hope of finding their friends but he found nothing until mid-afternoon,
when lying flat on his stomach in order to get as good a view into the gorge as
possible, he spotted some footprints on a bank of shingle. He was too distant
to make out much more than that the shingle had recently been disturbed but it
was enough to vindicate his choice of direction. However, if he expected an
apology from Iska, he had sadly underestimated her. She merely divested herself
of  some muttered remarks about lucky guesses.

 They hurried on, encouraged by what they had found, following
the edge of the ravine as closely a they could, but a short distance further
they encountered a thicket so dense that it could not be penetrated on
horseback and they were forced to leave the cliff edge and return once more
into the maze of trees. The old, silent feeling of being watched that had
receded a little on the more open ground by the defile, now returned as the
trees closed ranks conspiratorially around them. Eimer once more began to
wonder if the strange forbidding atmosphere was beginning to play tricks with
his mind, for several times he thought he caught the flash of movement out of
the tail of his eye, yet each time when he swiftly turned his head to look more
closely, he could see nothing at all. However, just as he was beginning to doubt
his sanity, Iska, riding behind him with her arms around his waist, said softly
in his ear: “I think you were right when you said that something was following
us. Twice I have seen the leaves of bushes move when there is no wind, and I am
certain it was not merely a bird.”