The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (22 page)

 Iska, cornered but fighting, stubbornly proclaimed: “The
whole point of drawing a map is so that one doesn’t
have
to memorise the
route.”

 “So you have no idea where we are?”

 “She never had any idea,” Vesarion said looking over his
shoulder at his passenger. “Am I right?”

 “I thought that if we just kept heading northwards, we were
bound to find somewhere I recognised.”

 “So, you admit that when you told us that you knew the way,
you were lying.”

 “I had to,” she pleaded desperately. “If I had told you
that I wasn’t sure of the way, you would have turned back and I couldn’t risk
that.”

 “So here we are then,” declared an exasperated Sareth.
“Stuck in the middle of nowhere with very little food and a guide who doesn’t know
where she is going.” She cast her hand towards the plain lying before them. “Is
any of this familiar to you, Iska? Did you pass a lake on your outward
journey?”

 Iska drew breath to reply but was pre-empted by Vesarion.
“The truth, this time, if you please.”

 She glared at him. “No. I didn’t pass a lake. I’ve never
been here before.”

 “Great!” exploded Eimer. “Now what?”

 “We’ll camp here at the edge of the trees for tonight,” decided
Vesarion. “The sun is sinking and we are all tired and hungry -  but some
difficult decisions will have to be made in the morning.”

 Eimer slid from the saddle and untying the crossbow,
disappeared into the trees with the look of a man who wished to kill something.

 The others unsaddled the horses and got a fire going in a
hollow amongst the last few trees before the grassy plain. No one, not even
kind-hearted Bethro, spoke to Iska, who sat sullenly on her blanket, trying to
convince herself she was the injured party.

 Sareth, busy attempting to prepare a scratch meal from the
few provisions they had left, went down to a nearby brook for water, but upon
her return was brought up short so suddenly by what she saw, that she spilt
some of her burden. There, lined up neatly by the fire, were three hares,
neatly skinned and gutted. She blinked in astonishment, wondering if Eimer had
caught them. But there was no sign of Eimer, or Vesarion for that matter.
Bethro was sitting propped against a tree, his head nodding in sleep and Iska
was curled up into a resentful ball on her blanket, still obviously in a huff.

 She set the water down and examined the hares. A heavy
crossbow bolt would have done considerable damage, but there was barely a mark
on them. She began to look a little warily around her and was glad when at that
moment, Eimer and Vesarion returned together. She pounced on her brother.

 “Eimer, did you do this?” she asked, pointing at the hares.

 He looked at them in puzzlement. “It wasn’t me. I’ve had no
luck at all.”

 They both turned to Vesarion who shook his head in denial.

 “Then it seems our unseen guest is still with us,” concluded
the Prince. “I had encountered no sign this last day or so, and thought we had
lost it, but it seems not.”

 “I think we should put an end to this performance,”
Vesarion said with quiet determination. “I think it’s time that whoever, or
whatever, is stalking us is unmasked.”

 “Agreed,” the Prince replied. “I don’t know what sort of
game is being played with us. Even though it has done us no harm – and indeed,
the hares are most welcome – I’d like to know what we are dealing with.”

 That evening, as the sun sank and the boisterous wind died
down, the company was seated around the fire, finishing the last of the stew
made from their unexpected gift, when Eimer discreetly nudged Vesarion who was
sitting next to him. Soundlessly, he gave his head a slight jerk towards some
bushes at the edge of the camp. Vesarion examined them out of the corner of his
eye and caught the tiniest movement of leaves in the still air.

 “Bethro,” he said pleasantly, “oblige me by telling us one
of the stories from the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom. Tell us again the legend
of the chalice flower?”

 The Keeper of Antiquities, delightfully full of stew and
less sensitive to atmosphere than the others, was only too happy to oblige and
embarked on a rather long-winded narrative.

 His more alert companions fixed their eyes questioningly on
Vesarion, who signalled discreetly to them to keep talking. Eimer rose quietly
to his feet and melted like a shadow into the misty dusk gathering between the
trees.

 “One day, when the world was young,” Bethro began, “and the
Creator took great delight in all he had made, the Destroyer took in secret
some of the first spirits and broke them to his will.”

 Vesarion waited, tensed for action, his hand straying
involuntarily to the hilt of his sword. Bethro’s words passed over him as
unnoticed as a gentle breeze.

 “When Yervenar discovered that evil had been brought into
this world, in his grief, he wept and where his tears fell, little flowers
sprang up, with petals of the purest crystal and stems like emeralds. The
flowers had the power to heal any wound, even to bring the dead to life again.
In the days of the Old Kingdom, many brave men searched unavailingly for them,
but only one man ever found one, Vesarion’s great ancestor – Erren-dar. He was
the one who…..”

 Suddenly, a commotion broke out from behind the bushes.
There was a shriek and a thud or two and the bushes convulsed alarmingly.
Vesarion leaped to his feet and ploughed through the greenery to find Eimer
wrestling with something on the ground and whatever it was, it was putting up a
ferocious fight. It kicked and struggled viciously. A set of sharp teeth
snapped shut just a hairsbreadth from the Prince’s wrist, causing him to let
out a yelp of alarm. Vesarion waded in to help and narrowly missed getting a
swipe from a set of claws. Eventually, between them, they pinned it to the
ground, both men panting with the effort.

 “Bring a rope!” shouted Eimer and Sareth leaped to obey him.

 Together, they trussed their victim’s hands behind its back.
Then, dishevelled and not in the best of moods, they stood back to view what
they had caught.

 “It’s a Turog!” exclaimed Iska.

 “A small one,” amended Bethro in the interests of accuracy,
“even for the common species.”

 “Then I never wish to wrestle a large one,” declared Eimer
fervently, wrapping his handkerchief around a scratch on his hand.

 Their victim sat on the ground, its yellow eyes glaring up
at them out of its grey-skinned face. It was dressed in leather breeches and a
tunic set with steel studs. On its back it had a pack, attached to which was a
very short, pointed sword, which it clearly had no opportunity to draw. It also
had a small asymmetric bow and a quiver of arrows. Its wide mouth was pulled
back to reveal an impressive set of pointed teeth, through which it was
growling softly.

 “Who are you and why were you following us?” demanded
Vesarion.

 Its sulphurous eyes swivelled towards him and the growling
stopped, but it said nothing.

 “Are there more of you?”

 “
Kal-theng orn
,” it spat.

 Eimer looked at his co-assailant. “What does that mean?”

 “I don’t know, but its unlikely to be a compliment.”

 “Perhaps it doesn’t speak the modern tongue,” Bethro
suggested.

 Vesarion looked down into the yellow eyes staring so
balefully back at him and decided to try a ruse.

 “In that case, it is of no further use to us. Get a rope,
Eimer, and we’ll hang it from that tree.”

 Watching closely he thought he saw its eyes widen a little
in alarm. Eimer, well aware of what was going on, returned promptly with a
length of rope and started to form it into a noose.

 Sareth caught his sleeve. “Eimer, what are you doing?” she
asked urgently.

 But he shook her off and tested the noose by pulling it
tight.

 The Turog’s nerve finally broke. “
No! Gorm Speak!
”
it shrieked.

 “Ah!” said Vesarion in satisfaction. “I thought you
understood. Who are you?”

 “Gorm,” was the sullen, if unenlightening, response.

 “And you speak the modern tongue?”

 “Little bit.”

 “Who else is with you?”

 “Gorm alone.”

 “Why are you following us?”

 This appeared to perplex it for a bit, because it
hesitated, then finally said: “Gorm help. Find horse. Kill hares. Very good
help.”

 “Why?” asked Eimer. “Why would you want to help us?”

 To everyone’s surprise, the Turog turned its gaze on
Sareth.

 “Nice lady kill Gorm’s enemy,” it said. “Kill Sokoth.”

 Enlightenment dawned on Eimer and he turned to his sister.
“He means the Turog you killed during the ambush.” His glance descended to Gorm.
“Was that Sokoth?”

 “Yes. Sokoth torture poor Gorm. Kick him and bite him and make
fun of him. Gorm hate Sokoth.” To emphasise the point, he turned his head and
spat. Then returning to Sareth, he repeated in gleeful satisfaction. “Nice lady
kill him.”

Suddenly he grinned at her, his lips stretching across his
grey-skinned countenance from ear to ear. Taken completely by surprise, Sareth
found herself inexplicably smiling back.

 “Other Turog not kind to Gorm,” he resumed, becoming
expansive. “Not let him stay with them, so he help lady who killed enemy. Nice hares?”
he asked her. “Sareth not hungry now?”

 “How do you know her name?” Eimer demanded.

 “Know everyone’s name – even proud man who wants to hang
Gorm,” he added, giving Vesarion a slit-eyed look.

“It’s obviously been listening to our conversation for some
time now,” Vesarion said. “The question is, what do we do with it? If we
release it, it will only give away our position to its own kind.”

 “Not listened to Gorm!” interjected their subject peremptorily.
“Other Turog pick on Gorm because he is small. Think it funny to burn and beat
him. Gorm will not tell where Sareth is.”

 Sareth had been watching him speculatively, her head cocked
to one side as if considering something.

 Beneath his breath, Vesarion muttered to Eimer. “We can’t
trust it. Better to kill it.”

 If she heard the remark, Sareth gave no indication of it.
Looking down at the captive, she asked: “Gorm, do you know this region well?”

 “Yes. Yes. Know well.”

“Do you know where the Pass of Ogron is?”

 Gorm looked nonplussed. “Ogron?” he repeated uncertainly.

 Iska, catching Sareth’s drift, explained: “Very high,
snow-covered mountains running east to west, somewhere to the north of here.”

 “Yes. Gorm knows. Sees mountains many times. Not climbed
mountains. Evil things there. Best stay away.”

 Vesarion looked incredulously at Sareth. “Are you actually
proposing what I think you are proposing? You want to let a
Turog
be our
guide? Are you
insane
?”

 “Did you enjoy your stew, Vesarion?” she asked sweetly.

 “Yes – no. That’s beside the point. It can’t be trusted.
It’s a Turog, a creature of the Destroyer. It is essentially evil.”

 “I agree,” chimed in Bethro. “The Destroyer twisted their
nature to subdue them to his will and make them obey him without question. He
is their master.”

Gorm, who had been listening intently, head turning as the
argument went back and forth said: “Destroyer, the Dark Prince, abandoned
Kalthak after great battle.”

 “Kalthak?” Eimer repeated.

 “I think he means the common Turog,” Bethro suggested.

 “Great-turog all dead. Black Lord still likes Red Turog,
but abandoned Kalthak after battle was lost – not forgive failure.”

 “Were you there, Gorm? At the great battle?” Iska asked.

 “Yes,” he said simply. “Turog live very long time. Longer
than man. Gorm sent to guard bridge day of great battle. That is why he lived.
Many others dead.” Suddenly he glowered at Bethro in a manner that made the
librarian take a step backwards. “Gorm has no master now,” he announced
fiercely.

 “I don’t like it,” quavered Bethro nervously. “The Turog
have been mankind’s enemy since the beginning of time. They cannot deny their
own nature.”

 “Well, what do you propose we do, Bethro?” Eimer asked, a
little impatiently. “Are you prepared to kill it?”

 Bethro went pale and started stammering excuses. Gorm,
cunningly scenting an opportunity, said winningly: “Gorm guide Sareth. Keep her
safe from Kalthak. Find food. Very good hunter. Very
stealthy
,” he
declared, showing off his vocabulary.

 Sareth couldn’t help laughing, and once again, Vesarion
found himself envying her lack of concern.

 “This is not wise,” he said earnestly.

 She faced him, meeting his eye this time, desperately
wanting to avoid another confrontation with him.

 “I understand your reservations, believe me, I do, but we
have only limited choices here. We do not know the way to Adamant and I don’t
know about you, but I am far from certain of the way back. We are nearly out of
food and he has provided us with a meal tonight.” Gorm nodded vigorously at
this. “What else can we do?”

 He held her gaze. “Go from bad to worse,” he said softly.
“That’s what we can do.”

 Still she held his eyes steadily, while the others awaited
the outcome in silence.

 “What do we do, Vesarion?” she prompted again.

 She could see some sort of battle raging within him that
she did not quite understand, but at last he said: “I suppose we go on.” Then
muttered beneath his breath to himself. “No one dare accuse me of shirking my
duty.”

 “I beg your pardon?”

 “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Rounding on Gorm, he said
sharply: “It goes against all my instincts to release you. If I had my way, I
would slit your throat. So I swear to you, if you play us false, it will be the
last thing you ever do. Are we clear on that?”

 Gorm glared back and said nothing.

 Vesarion drew his sword and took a threatening step closer.
“Are we clear?” he insisted.

 “Yes,” replied the Turog sullenly.

“Very well.” Vesarion used the tip of his sword to cut the
ropes that bound Gorm and strode abruptly away, clearly displeased.

 As far as Bethro was concerned, Gorm passed his first test
of trustworthiness that night, by not murdering them all in their sleep. He did
not know that Vesarion had stayed awake all during the hours of darkness, his
back propped against a tree, his drawn sword across his knees, his suspicions
of the Turog not allayed in the least.

 In the morning, just as they were packing up, Iska came to
Sareth, contrition written all over her face.

 “I’m sorry, Sareth. Don’t be angry with me for misleading
you.”

 Sareth shrugged. “I understand that you didn’t want us to
turn back. I’d have probably done the same.”

 Iska’s brow lightened. “It’s just that….that because of my
strange upbringing, apart from Callis, who has been like a father to me, I have
never had a friend before.”

 Warm-hearted Sareth was unable to resist such an appeal, and
gave the girl with the amber eyes, a brief, reassuring hug.

 “I am still your friend, Iska, never fear.”

 “Then you don’t mind if I ask you a personal question?”

 “Not at all.”

 Iska drew a deep breath. “What do you see in Vesarion? I
mean, I grant you that he is tall and quite good-looking but he can be so cold,
so distant. Only once has he ever unbent with me, when he told me how his
parents died, but usually I am under a cloud of disapproval – and as for you?
You and he are always at odds, so…..so why marry him?”

 Sareth, her face utterly expressionless, replied: “It is an
arranged marriage. Emotions do not come into it.”

 “That’s not true,” Iska contradicted, casting a quick
glance around to ensure that they were not being overheard. Lowering her voice,
she added: “At least, not on your part. I saw the look on your face when he
appeared out of the forest that day. He doesn’t know it, but you love him,
don’t you?”

 Sareth turned away and began tugging at the strap on a
saddlebag. “It’s pointless to talk about it,” she said constrictedly.

 “No it isn’t,” disagreed her new friend. “I mean, I don’t
know why you want him, but if you do, we’ll just have to work on him.”

 Sareth was surprised into giving a gasp of laughter.

 “If only I were really a witch,” continued Iska, giving the
matter some thought. “I could put a spell on him.”

 Still smiling in amusement, Sareth said: “No, Iska. He must
love me all by himself or not at all.”

 “From what I’ve seen, that plan doesn’t seem to be going
very well,” observed her tactless counsellor.

 “No, not at all well,” was the subdued reply.

 With Gorm jogging along ahead of them, they reached the
shores of the lake when the sun was at its zenith. The horses showed
surprisingly little fear of him but would not permit him on their backs.
However, for being the owner of a pair of short, bandy legs, he could cover
quite a remarkable amount of territory and never seemed to tire.

 The lake stretched before them, cool and slightly misty. A
chill breeze shivered its surface and caused little waves to slap rhythmically
against the sandy shore. The wading birds took fright at their approach and as
of one accord, rose into the air, trilling with alarm, before wheeling against
the metallic surface and disappearing eastwards. When they had gone, an eerie
silence descended, broken only by the waves and the plaintive moan of the
breeze through the stiff grasses on the sand-dunes.

 Eimer dismounted and walked across the sand towards the
water’s edge.

 “What do you call this lake, Gorm?” he called back to their
guide, who was sitting atop a tussock of grass examining the soles of his
boots.

 “Rathoc lur.”

 Vesarion looked round impatiently. “What is that in a
civilised tongue?”

 Gorm looked sideways at him. “Lonely Lake.”

 They all dismounted, except Bethro, and followed Eimer.

 “An appropriate name,” observed Sareth. “This place may
have a certain beauty but it is desolate. Perhaps we can catch some fish here?
What do you think, Bethro?”

 But it was Gorm who answered. “No fish,” he said
laconically. “All salt.”

 Eimer, not convinced, dipped his hand into the water and
licked his finger. “Ugh! He’s right. It’s as salty as the sea.”

 “No fish,” repeated Gorm. “Let’s go.”

 But as they turned to leave, Eimer’s eye was caught by
something in the sand. The others turned to watch as he bent closer, his
curiosity clearly piqued.

 Something appeared to be moving just beneath a small patch
of silvery sand. The fine, dry grains began to tremble and fall inwards as a
slight hollow started to appear.

 Vesarion stepped closer. “What do you see?” he asked.

 “I don’t know,” replied Eimer, mystified. “Perhaps some
animal burrowing under the sand, maybe a snake.” He lifted his head to call to
their guide. “Gorm, come here and have a look at this.”

 Obediently, Gorm heaved himself to his feet and trotted
across the sand to the Prince. He looked at the hollow in the sand, which had
now stopped moving.

 “Do you know what this is?” asked the Prince.

 “Yes.”

 “Well?” the Prince prodded, in hope of enlightenment.

 “Hole in sand,”  Gorm declared, unimpressed.

 But just then the sand in the hollow began to vibrate a
little, each grain shivering and dancing. Fascinated, Eimer and Gorm bent
closer, then without warning, an arm made of sand shot upwards from the hollow
and grabbed Eimer by the ankle. Sareth, who had been standing beside her
brother, leaped back, but not quickly enough. Another hand caught her by the
foot and tripped her, bringing her down with a thump onto her face. In a flash,
yet a third arm emerged beside her, and gripping her shoulder with the strength
of a vice, began to pull her downwards into the soft sand.