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

 The cavalcade of mounted men wound slowly across the plain
of Addania following the white road as it skirted fields bristling with the
fresh green shoots of young wheat. A cool sun had just risen over the low hills
to the east. It sent out pale beams of light, casting before it long shadows
that flattened themselves across the ground, pointing to the west, towards the
tall mountain range that the riders had just left two arduous days before. The
Westrin Mountains, their snowy flanks gilded by the new sun, floated dreamily
against the backdrop of diamond-clear sky. Here and there wispy clouds wound
silken scarves around their jagged peaks, but nothing else dared impinge upon
their remote majesty.

 The man at the head of the column had twisted in the saddle
to look back at them, as if somehow irresistibly drawn against his will. Cold and
inhospitable they might be, but they were his home and he loved them with a
devotion almost beyond reason. His eye fell on the neat line of riders behind
him, travelling three abreast with orderly precision. The cavalcade wound back
along the road until a bend, curving around a dense copse of trees, cut off the
tail of the column from sight. Every one of the two thousand men was heavily
armed with swords and battleaxes. Sturdy, round shields were slung on their
backs and all wore close-fitting helmets with long nose and cheek guards giving
them a war-like aspect quite in keeping with their reputation as the fiercest
fighters in the Kingdom.

 The man who led them, in contrast, wore no armour. He was
dressed plainly but richly in a cloak of dark blue which was, coincidentally,
the exact colour of his eyes. His leather gauntlets and riding boots were of
the finest quality but were liberally splashed with mud, as was his horse –
evidence of a long and difficult journey.

 The mighty ramparts of snow, high in the Westrin Mountains,
had begun to melt early that year. Spring had arrived with unexpected
suddenness, routing winter like a timid opponent. The result was such a sudden
thaw that every brook became a rushing torrent, every stream an unfordable
cataract. At the village of Tharn in the foothills, the infant river Addania
had thundered down its steep valley in the mountains to completely sweep away
the wooden bridge, necessitating a long detour.

 The harsh frown between the brows of the man in the blue
cloak deepened as he remembered how they had lost a man in the perilous fording
of the river. It was a waste of a good fighter, and he disliked waste.

 Although only in his mid-thirties, an impartial observer
would have been left in no doubt as to his authority. He carried power with an
ease more readily expected in an older man, yet he carried it with the
nonchalance of one long used to so doing. His face, though not precisely
handsome, would have been pleasant had it not been for the habitual frown. The
trait, together with a slightly steely quality in his glance, managed to convey
the sense that it would be unwise to displease him. Closer inspection would
have revealed a certain humorous quality to his mouth that his deep reserve and
aloofness did not entirely conceal. He was at his best when he smiled – which
was seldom.

 He straightened in his saddle, dragging his gaze away from
the peaks just as the column crested a slight rise, in time to be greeted by
his first sight in over a year of the city of Addania. It sat on its island,
embraced by the protective arms of the river, its tall curtain walls and
battlements rising sheer out of the water to the silver-grey machicolations
high above the plain. A hill rose within the outer walls, up which wound many
narrow streets. The roofs of the tightly packed houses were a jumble of
different angles and levels, interspersed with chimney pots and the occasional
glimpse of an ornate wooden balcony. The top of the hill bore another crenellated
wall in the same silver-grey stone but this time more ornamental than
defensive. It enclosed the palace compound, home of the Kings of Eskendria and
the centre of power. It had been thus for over a thousand years, ever since the
Destroyer had brought down the Old Kingdom, of which Eskendria had merely been
a province. Now history had become legend and the memory of the High Kings of
Korem had faded until it had become one of the many fables for children to
learn from the ancient writings – The Chronicles of the Old Kingdom. The last
governor of Eskendria had taken the title of king so long ago that the carvings
on the wall of the throne room, setting out the names and dates of all the Kings
of Eskendria, now stretched from floor to ceiling. Yet it was not the royal
house that carried the last remaining bloodline of the old kings, but the house
of Westrin.

 As they drew nearer, every rider tilted back his head to
look at the pennants of sky-blue flying from the pinnacle of each slender
tower. They billowed and unfurled in the gelid spring breeze. Although they
were yet too distant for the emblem they carried to be visible, each man knew
the symbol as well as he knew his own heart – the legendary chalice flower,
Chalcoria
,
in the old tongue. It was the symbol of the Old Kingdom, the symbol of freedom,
order and light. It emblazoned every flag, embossed every shield and every
breastplate and symbolised everything Eskendria stood for.

 A single bridge provided access to the city, spanning the
river in one audacious leap. The bridge was the only part of the city that was
not ancient, for it was no older than sixty years, having been built to replace
the original one that had been destroyed when the city had last been besieged
by the Turog, the inhuman servants of the Destroyer.

 The events of a mere generation ago seemed very distant
that calm spring morning. Looking around the well-ordered plain, with its neat,
tilled fields and snug farmhouses, and the city so lofty and proud, the Lord of
Westrin found it difficult to imagine the plain crawling with the foul
creatures of the Destroyer. It seemed impossible that the city had once been surrounded
by the might of their black forces, with catapults and siege engines ready to
breach even the mightiest walls. Yet their army had been defeated - not by the Eskendrian
forces, but by one man. Now that too was fading into the stuff of legends. Now
that too was melting into forgetfulness. For a generation Eskendria had lived
at peace. Children had been born and grown to adulthood without ever having
seen a Turog. They knew them not as a dangerous enemy but merely as a minor nuisance
- renegades who raided the outlying farmsteads of those foolish enough to try
to scratch a living across the river Harnor in the Great Forest. Peace and
security had left the Eskendrians a little complacent about their safety,
taking for granted what had been hard-won by the blood of generations now gone.

 But now unrest in a different form was making itself felt.
Lacking any threat from beyond their borders, those within Eskendria now
murmured against each other. The situation was such that King Meldorin had
summoned his most powerful baron to leave his fortress at Ravenshold, high in
the Westrin Mountains, and bring with him all of the elite cavalry division
garrisoned there. Even in his remote mountain fastness, away from the political
machinations of the capital, Westrin had heard rumours of dissention. There
were murmurings in the eastern baronies. Dissatisfaction with rule from Addania
and the Crown Prince’s high-handed ways. Resentment against his new stratagems
for raising revenue. Until now, he had dismissed most of it as scaremongering,
the result of idle gossip and over-active imaginations, but the King’s summons,
particularly accompanied by the order to bring the full compliment of
Ravenshold Brigands, lent alarming credence to them. Being no fool, Westrin
also suspected that the summons was a test of his loyalty. A refusal to comply
would have put him in the position of outright revolt against the crown –
something that none of the other barons had as yet done. On the other hand,
obedience was a demonstration to the disaffected that the King could still
command the loyalty of the most powerful of his barons, a man that others would
not lightly disregard. It would make plain to any who might consider rising
against the King, that they would provoke a daunting enemy, enough, at any
rate, to give the smaller baronies pause for thought.

 In actual fact,  nothing could have been further from
Westrin’s thoughts than revolt against the crown. His house had been strongly
attached to the royal line ever since his grandfather and the old king,
Andarion, had been such close friends. But Andarion had been dead these twenty years
and his son was not of the calibre one would have expected from such a sire. A
kind man, but weak, dominated by others, at first, for good, by his wife, and
after her death, for ill, by the Crown Prince. Westrin knew well that the test
of his loyalties came not from the King but from Prince Enrick and felt his
hackles instinctively rise. Although he and the Prince were much of an age, and
indeed had grown up together when Westrin’s parents had died and he had been
brought to Addania by the King, they had always been rivals, disliking each
other from the moment they had met at the tender age of ten. The King had been
kind to the young lad who had so suddenly been left alone in the world, and had
brought him up as his own son, but Enrick lost no opportunity to torment.
Unfortunately, his maliciousness was not quite matched by physical prowess and
the result was many a well-earned black eye.

 In latter years, in fact, ever since he had taken control
of his inheritance at the youthful age of eighteen, Westrin had shunned
Addania, contemptuous of Enrick’s plots and schemes and weary of having to
control his somewhat imperious temper in order to show the expected deference
to the Prince. He retired to his mountain retreat and occupied himself in
governing it well. Addania saw no more of him than was strictly necessary, but
now the Prince was once more trying to make him dance to his tune. The frown deepened
as the thought crossed his mind, and the blue eyes became a little hard. The
Prince, had he been present to have seen the look, would, with long years of
experience, have had little doubt as to its meaning.

 The King’s letter had also contained another proposal intended
to bind the house of Westrin ever closer to the crown. Westrin had thought long
and deeply concerning it, uncertain as to whether it was wise or not, and more
than a little irritated because he guessed that the proposal originated not
from the King, but from his manipulative elder son. But now he approached
Addania, his mind made up.

 At that moment his reverie was interrupted by one of the
riders who detached his horse from the column and drew alongside.

 “My lord, do you wish me to send a messenger ahead to warn
of your arrival?”

 Westrin shook his head. “No, Captain, they are well aware
that I am coming and will be watching from the citadel. Our presence will have
been reported to the King the moment we came within sight of the city.”

 The Captain, presuming on long acquaintanceship, added: “Right
glad I am to see the city, my lord, for a cold a difficult journey it has
been.”

 But Westrin merely nodded in reply, refusing to be drawn
into conversation. Captain Seldro, accustomed to his master’s reticence, let
the matter go and resumed his place in the column, tacitly accepting that
information as to the purpose of their journey would not be had until he
immersed himself in the gossip of the guardroom at Addania. Rumours had
abounded at Ravenshold, once it was known that the King had summoned them to
Addania a mere month before their lord was due to go anyway, to take the annual
oath of loyalty. It was whispered that Westrin was needed to crush rebellion
against the King in the eastern baronies. It was even suggested that the old
King feared a plot against his life by his ambitious elder son and had begged
his most trusted baron to protect him. However, consumed as he was by
curiosity, Seldro knew well that to persist would only earn him a sharp rebuke.
Westrin was notorious for keeping his own counsel – a trait that Seldro
normally would have approved of, but which this time he was finding unusually
frustrating.

 Westrin’s prediction proved to be surprisingly accurate. As
the city drew near, a detachment of palace guards in full ceremonial armour
could be seen awaiting their arrival on the crest of the bridge. They were led
by an athletic young man whose cloak of royal crimson proclaimed his lineage.
Although his chin bore the makings of a beard in an ill-advised attempt at
maturity, his youthful figure, curling dark hair and laughing eyes, detracted
from this attempt at gravitas and revealed a young man who had not quite left
the boy behind. His attempt at dignity was also somewhat undermined by a ludicrously
overdone look of longsuffering. Nonetheless, when the approaching cavalcade
halted before him, he greeted its leader with flawless courtesy.

 “Welcome, Lord of Westrin.”

 With commendable gravity, Westrin bowed slightly, his
expression inscrutable. “Prince Eimer.”

 Their eyes met and locked. It was the Prince’s stern
demeanour that was the first to crack.

 “I was beginning to think you must have taken the scenic
route by the length of time it took you to get here,” he announced airily. “Or
have they moved those god-forsaken mountains of yours a little closer to
Serendar when I wasn’t looking?”

Westrin’s lips twitched in response. “Young pup,” he
murmured.

 Eimer’s ready laugh broke out in response and all the men
within earshot grinned. “I knew it! I knew your first words to me would be
‘young pup’! A year in that eagle’s nest you call home, cut off from all
civilisation, has not improved your manners, Vesarion.”

 Westrin tried unsuccessfully to look stern. “Speak
respectfully to your elders, pup. Remember I am ten years your senior and am to
be given the reverence commanded by my advanced age. Besides, Ravenshold may be
remote but even in such outlandish places, tales of your latest exploit have
filtered through.”